


There Is No Rapture

by shewhodrawscats



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Dark, Gen, Inspired greatly by the Bioshock novel by John Shirley, Ken Levine can kiss my ass, WWII mentions, in which I take a character with a shoddy backstory and try to flesh it out, long as heck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-29 02:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15062975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewhodrawscats/pseuds/shewhodrawscats
Summary: In 1946, scores of people began vanishing without a trace; scientists, doctors, artists. Among the Vanished was Brigid Tenenbaum, a survivor of the recent war and young science prodigy.When she came to Rapture, she believed she could finally understand the human condition. If only she had known her work would bring about the end of Utopia.





	1. 1925

**Author's Note:**

> This was my NaNoWriMo 2017 project, and the first project with which I ever hit the goal of 50k. As such, this story is... clunky, rambling, and there are details missing. The entire story will slowly (so slowly) be uploaded depending on whether it gets any interest or not, but people actually reading it will certainly encourage me to update it more frequently. I'm filling in the gaps as I go, so please be kind.

1925

Minsk, Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic

 

Natalia Petrova had never wanted children.

Little more than a child herself in the eyes of her mother, she had expected to live a life of her own with her husband, perhaps see more of the world than just the simple little corner of it that she had spent all of her days in. To seek adventure. After all, when she had met Rolf, he had been a soldier-- he wooed and regaled her with tales of the places he had traveled, of his home back in Prussia, of the fantastic things that he would one day show her.

They had fallen in love so quickly that Natalia had to believe it was fate. Her mother would rather call it foolishness.

“A little further, mäus.” Rolf's voice broke through into her thoughts, pulling her disconnected self back into the present. Aware once more of the sensations around her, she could feel too much. The sweat beading on her forehead and dripping down her neck; every hair on her body seemed to be standing on end.

And pain. _Oh_ , she felt so much pain. It would have been so much easier to feel nothing at all.

With a sharp intake of breath, the hand that had been resting at her side came up to press against the swell of her stomach, trying desperately to soothe the throbbing pain that shot through her body. Waves of discomfort worked their way up and down from deep inside of her. In an instant, her mind screamed out two thoughts:

_Something is wrong,_ followed very quickly by, _Yahweh, is the baby is trying to kill me?_

If God was listening, he offered her no answer or reprieve. Instead, the pain continued, feeling as if someone were twisting her from the inside. How she wished to know Rolf's thoughts as he watched her, clutching her frail hand in his own. Her husband, who watched with such concern... and what else could he do? This was his first child as well, and aside from sending his mother-in-law for someone who could help, there was little he could do.

How useless he must have felt, she realized, watching those fearful eyes.

She could see herself reflected in his beautiful blue eyes, then; pale, too pale, with sweat dripping down her forehead. Dark hair sticking to her face in strange wisps and clumps. Dark eyes. Would their child have his blue eyes or her own deep brown? Pain surged, and her eyes shut so tightly that the haze behind her eyelids turned white.

Rolf had begun to recite scripture again, and the sound of it calmed her notably.

“ _The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble; the name of the God of Jacob defend thee; Send thee help from the sanctuary, and strengthen thee out of Zion._ ” Her darling husband, this man who had been raised with no true devotion to his religion, now reciting scripture for his wife and her traditions. To please the God that she so feared and devoted herself to-- or, perhaps, to appease her mother? She could not tell and frankly, in that moment, found that she did not have it in her to care.

The sound of her mother climbing the stairs interrupted the recitation, if only for a breath. Nana pushed open the door to her daughter's bedroom, looking on in the pair in horror. Natalia could only imagine what sort of thoughts were running through her poor mother's head at the sight.

“Away from her, boy!” was snapped towards Rolf, who jerked backward at the words. While he was certainly no boy, more than twice Nana's height and perhaps twice as wide as well, he still flinched away from the frail old woman. Pain returned as the distraction of the Psalms was taken from her, and Natalia's head began to swim again. She could just barely make out the words her mother was saying--- _Niddah_. She was bleeding from the pregnancy, which she supposed explained some of the pain. Her husband was not to see her like this. Rolf was objecting, saying he wanted to be there to help. To hold his child and his wife.

It seemed that her dear Rolf may not have fully committed to the ways of her family. She could not find it in herself to be irritated, however. He wanted so much just to hold her, to be there... was that not a noble request? With her husband sentenced to the chair in the corner of the room, faced away from where he could risk seeing her naked lower half, Natalia's mind began to wander again despite the pain.

She barely noticed her mother seating herself between her legs, preparing to deliver the child. She barely heard the alarm in her voice when Nana realized that the umbilical cord had wound itself around the child's neck.

For a few minutes, instinct seemed to take over--- and Natalia's mind went blissfully blank. Mind shutting down to allow the body to do as it needed. It was nice, it was _safe_ in the haze that her mind had created for her. She was not pulled out of it until she heard the sharp cries of a child.

_Her_ child.

Despite their fears, the child had quickly been untangled, the umbilical cord untwisted and cut so the baby could begin to breathe on her own, mouth and nose cleared. And she had begun to cry, fearfully, desperately. That was the only way Natalia could think to describe the sound. _Desperate_.

Her hands trembled, releasing the sheets that had remained bunched in her fists--- but she did not reach out for the child.

There was a long moment of hesitation before Rolf rose from his chair, once Nana had finished rearranging his wife's skirt to cover her indecency. He was the one to take and soothe the child, a baby girl who seemed to calm simply at being in his hands.

" _Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe_ ,” He began to recite, staring down at the child who stared up at him in enraptured silence, “ _who has allowed us to live, has preserved us, and has enabled us to reach this season_."

“A baby girl...” Natalia murmured, the scripture being one that made a statement. Her voice sounded distant, even to her own ears. “We have a little baby girl...”

“Beautiful. Like her mother,” came the deep rumble from her husband, who came to sit on the bed beside her. The child had baby blue eyes that darkened around the edges, dark brown hair that was still wet from the afterbirth. “She's perfect, isn't she, mäus?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

Still, Natalia made no move to hold her.

Moments passed before Nana interrupted, as gruff as ever, “And? Did you two prepare a name for the baby? You cannot just call her _girl_.”

“Brigid,” Rolf spoke up again, giving his mother-in-law no chance to object, to insist upon a good, Biblical name. “Our little Brigid... Welcome to the world, my little one...”

 


	2. 1933

1933

Minsk, Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic

 

From her spot on the lower floor of her family's small domicile, Brigid could make out her mother's pained sounds through the floorboards and ceiling above her head. It was, sadly, not so unusual a noise to hear in the home; her mother's strange illness had persisted throughout all of her daughter's young life, and the small girl was hard pressed to remember a time when she had been without it. It left her beautiful mother weak, locked away in her bedroom with her child kept out.

Today, the sounds were different. Mama was different.

Her parents had explained the concept of pregnancy to the young girl with relative ease, despite her Babulia's insistence that her granddaughter was too young to know of such things, and it was not the sort of topic for a young child to be hearing. Luckily, her father had disagreed.

Her mother was pregnant. A baby was growing deep inside of her belly ( ' _like a seed,_ ' Papa had said, only seeds did not make humans, a conversation that had lasted twice as long as the entire conversation about pregnancy itself. ) Mama was going to have another baby, and Brigid... she would have a little brother or sister.

Again, Mama cried out from her bedroom, and the little girl stood from her spot by the fireplace to slowly pad her way upstairs towards the forbidden room.

At what point had Brigid been locked out of her mother's bedroom? She was almost certain her mother had to have nursed her, because there were photographs of her mother cradling her in her own bed. At what point had the child become a nuisance, despite doing everything she could just to please the most important woman in her life?

Papa would insist she was not a nuisance. Babulia would say that Mama was sick, or that she was too weak to deal with children. If this was the case, she had to wonder why her mother was having _another_ baby.

Slinking through the hallways, the tiny girl passed photographs of her family; Mama and Papa on their wedding day. Babulia and her husband, who Brigid had never gotten to meet and who the elder didn't speak of very often. Pictures of Brigid herself with her Papa, sitting on his lap and reading stories, or playing games.

Not one picture had been taken of Brigid with her mother since she had passed the age of two.

Mama was sick. Everyone said it, all of the time. Natalia Tenenbaum is very, very sick, they would whisper up and down the street, and the nosy old women would come to the door from time to time to check in on her and offer their help. Papa never accepted it; Babulia said he was too proud, but she said it in a way that made it clear it was not meant to be a compliment. Babulia rarely complimented anything.

Another cry rang out from her mother's room, and Brigid flinched from the volume of it. Her mother had never raised her voice, except when in pain, and even then it was somehow melodious. The child was envious of this ability: even when trying her hardest, her own voice cracked at the edges somehow, and could never come across as sweet as her mother's did.

She was her father's daughter, they all said. _Her father's daughter._ But nothing like her mother.

Turning off of the main hall, the girl made a stop in the bathroom before moving any closer to the bedroom. There was a stool beneath the sink, one her father had carved for her when she had started moving around the house. He had found her one evening, standing on the edge of the bathtub in order to see into the mirror, and had spent the better part of the following morning carving the stool to ensure she didn't fall and hit her head.

Hopping onto the short step, Brigid was able to see herself reflected in the oval mirror perched over the sink. Dark hazel eyes watched her-- far from her mother's own bright, sky blue ones. Thick waves of dark brown hair fell around her face, too wild to be kept tied back. Whenever Babulia tried, Brigid found that the braids would either come undone on their own, or she would sneak the ties out when the elder wasn't watching.

Brigid stared at her reflection a long while, then forced a smile. It didn't look right on her face somehow, her eyes not crinkling at the edges the way Papa's would. Dropping the expression, she instead reached for the taps and began to wash her hands.

Through the walls, she could hear the low rumble of her father's voice, though she could not make out the words over the sound of her mother's pain. A thought briefly crossed Brigid's mind ( ' _if this is childbirth, I don't ever want to have children_ ') then vanished as quickly as it had come. The stool was gingerly pushed back beneath the sink before she exited the small room, approaching her parents bedroom once again.

The brass doorknob turned easily in her hand, having been left unlocked. It was apparently a surprise to all of those present that the child could so easily get into the bedroom, because her mother stopped her gasping to stare over towards the open doorway, and her father seemed to smile at the sight of her with his eyes. Her grandmother, on the other hand, moved much more quickly than any woman her age should have been able.

“Out, girl!” The words practically shoved Brigid out of the room, long before Babulia could have come close enough to do so herself. Silent, the child simply watched as her father returned to comforting her mother, who had let her head fall back against the pillows once again. She did not have a chance to speak as her grandmother ushered her back out into the hall, closing the door.

The quiet 'click' of the lock said more than enough.

Brigid couldn't be sure how long she stood there, but it had felt like hours. Finally, she gave up waiting for the door to be reopened, and resigned herself to solitude in her bedroom down the hall. She found companionship in the books her father gifted her, stories written in his own language. Her favourite clutched in her hands, a weathered and well-loved copy of _Kinder- und Hausmärchen_ _,_ she read until her eyes would not stay open any longer.

It was hours later that she was awoken, book still on her bed beside her, by the sound of her father entering the bedroom. In his arms, a squirming bundle caught her eye, and Brigid suddenly found herself very much awake as he came closer, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“His name is Caleb, mäuschen.” Rolf's voice was soft as he spoke, as if not to disturb the child's slumber, and Brigid couldn't resist peeling back the blanket to look at the baby's face. He was red, and wrinkled, and looked as if he was on the verge of fussing again. The girl found him perfectly ugly, and yet she was wholeheartedly in love with him in an instant. “ _Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who bestows good things upon the unworthy, and has bestowed upon me every goodness._ ”

“Amen,” Brigid said, the word coming automatically, even as she reached out to touch at Caleb's tiny face. The baby stirred, opening his bright eyes up at his sister. “He's ugly... but his eyes are pretty, like Mama's.”

Rolf couldn't help but chuckle at his daughter's bluntness. One never had to guess how it was she felt. “He's going to look up to you, mäuschen. You will be his favourite person, I am sure of it. Now, back to bed with you... under the covers this time.”

With his free hand, Rolf returned the book of fairy tales to the shelf, waiting as Brigid crawled herself beneath the layers of quilts on her bed. Returning to her side, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, waiting patiently as Brigid sat up to press a kiss of her own to her father's cheek, and as gentle a kiss as she could manage to Caleb's head.

“I'm going to love him very much, Papa,” she ensured, snuggling herself into her bed. A pause followed, and as her father neared the doorway, Brigid couldn't help but ask, “Is Mama okay? Now that Caleb is out of her, is she going to be okay again?”

She couldn't see her father's face in the darkness to read his expression, and his voice always carried the same gentle tone as he spoke. “Your Mama is very weak right now, liebchen. She's going to need a lot of rest... But don't worry. She will be well again.”

The door was shut, and Brigid waited until she could no longer hear her father's heavy footfalls to shut her eyes. Finally, when sleep overtook her, she dreamt of nothing.

 


	3. 1934

1934

Minsk, Belorussian Soviet Socialist Republic

 

It had taken nearly a year, but finally, Natalia was able to come out of her bedroom and spend time with her family. Despite this, her attention was often focused solely on Caleb, the newborn growing quickly into a healthy child. Oftentimes, Brigid was left to her own devices, or watched by the careful eye of her grandmother from her stiff chair by the doorway.

She was almost never allowed to hold Caleb.

The first time she had asked, it had been brushed aside-- the baby was too small, too fragile as a newborn to be held by her hands. This sort of answer, she could accept. But as Caleb grew older and bigger and notably stronger, she was still denied by all but her father. Even then, he only seemed content to let Brigid hold him for short moments of time.

She had overheard the reason once; Babulia was scared she would hurt him.

It made no sense to the little girl, who couldn't imagine in her wildest dreams hurting the baby that she adored so much. In truth, it wasn't the first time her grandmother had expressed concerns about her. Brigid had a quick temper, a fiery spirit about her that made the elder uneasy. This concern had only increased after the incident with the _frogs_.

It wasn't the worst thing a child could have done, she thought. She only wanted to know how they worked inside, and the only way Brigid knew to understand how something was inside was to take it apart. When Papa had been fixing the clock once, she had gotten to help him take it apart, and had been able to see all the gears and mechanisms that made it tick. Frogs could not have been so much more complicated.

She hadn't meant to kill it. She hadn't meant for it to _die_...

...but how _fascinating_ it had been, to see the tiny heart inside of the creature, to see all those tiny organs that resembled worms, crawling about inside of the frog's slimy flesh. To avoid getting in trouble for using any knives, Brigid had instead used the small pair of golden scissors from inside the sewing basket beside her grandmother's chair. When Nana had realized what the girl had done, she wasted no time in giving the girl a good smack on the bottom before sending her to her room.

She'd had to wash her hands eight times before she was allowed to eat dinner, and she'd gotten quite the lecture afterwards. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to feel ashamed of what she had done. All she'd wanted was to understand.

“Little girls do not need to understand these things,” her grandmother had snapped, all the while refusing to meet the girl's eye. Her father, meanwhile, seemed not so much angry as confused by the actions of his daughter.

When she was in bed, the adults spoke freely, believing the tiny child would not hear them speaking about her.. but voices traveled easily in a house that size.

“That girl is trouble. Nothing but trouble.” Nana spat, and Brigid could practically see her face in her mind's eye, that pointed nose of hers turned sharply upward, mouth set in a stern frown.

She couldn't see it, but she was certain her father must have shook his head in reply. He always seemed to shake his head when people spoke of his daughter. “She is not trouble. My mäuschen, she is... curious. She is not like other girls, Nana. No matter how much you, or I, or anyone wants her to be, she is not like Natalia. You need to let her be Brigid.”

“You did not see what she did, Rolf!” Her grandmother's words were sharp, hissed then. Pulling the covers up over her head did nothing to silence the voices as they continued onward through the floorboards, “Cutting up some poor creature. She is a monster, Yahweh will see what she has done, and she will be punished for it.”

“For a frog? I am certain God has more on his mind that punishing little girls.” The statement was followed by heavy footfalls, a door closing. Her father had evidently had enough, and Brigid wished that she could follow after him instead of being trapped in her bed, pretending desperately to sleep.

She prayed that night from her spot hidden beneath the heavy quilts; and when no punishment came to strike her down from the heavens, she slept.

 


	4. 1938

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to note that there is a chapter missing here, 1935, where the family moves away from Minsk and to their new home in Germany. Hopefully I'll return and include the chapter at a later date, but for now, it's just not the more interesting story I'm hoping to tell.

1938

 

“Come away from the window, girl. You are going to catch your death.”

Brigid stared across the room at her grandmother for a long moment before admitting defeat and pulling the window closed. Moving further into the family room, the girl sat herself on the rug by the fire, near to where her father sat in his chair with Caleb bouncing on his knee. Babulia sat on her rigid chair by the door, watching the youth with a wary eye.

“Catch my death of what, Babulia?”

She did not miss the way her grandmother's eyes narrowed so sharply at her, and she was prepared for the scolding she was sure to receive. Had it not been for Rolf's soft laughter at his daughter's question, she was certain she would not have heard the end of it. Looking in her father's direction, Brigid caught sight of his smile before turning back to her grandmother for an answer. Instead, she received nothing but an upturned nose and a scowl. Before she had chance to press her for more information, the elder rose from her chair and ambled towards the kitchen, scoffing under her breath.

The girl remained on the rug a moment longer before moving to lean against her father's leg, ignoring Caleb patting at her hair in his affectionate manner, “I only asked a _question_ , Papa. I don't see why she needs to be so angry with me... She _hates_ me.”

“She does not hate you, mäuschen. Babulia, she is used to young people respecting their elders.” Even when her father spoke in Belorussian to the rest of his family, his little terms of endearment were still in his native tongue. Her mother was mäus, she was mäuschen. Mouse and Little Mouse. Caleb was bärchen, Little Bear, though Brigid preferred to call him schnecke. He was much more like a snail than a bear, in her mind. As of late, however, he had begun to cry when she called him this, which would result in making him more snail-like in her eyes. It wasn't her fault that he tended to drool, or have snot running down his face.

“I don't disrespect her,” came the meagre objection, Brigid leaning back on her heels in order to cross her arms over her chest. Her father did not answer immediately, instead setting Caleb down on the floor and telling the child to go and see if Babulia needed any help in the kitchen. Brigid watched with a careful eye as the boy waddled his way out of the room and into the kitchen, and was momentarily surprised as her father's hand came down gently on her shoulder.

“Babulia is not used to smart little girls who do not do as they are told. You are not like your mother, mäuschen. She expects you to be.”

The comparison made the girl want to flinch internally, though she remained still. It was a common thought, Brigid knew. Even at her young age, she was not so unaware of the way that people spoke of her, of all the ways that she differed from her mother. Mama had always loved to cook, and had always wanted to have children, and loved to be a homemaker. Brigid had wanted none of those things, not so instinctively. She could not cook like Mama. She was not as pretty as her mother ( she often heard that she took after her father in appearance, ) not as good as her.

“I'm sorry, Papa.” The words felt fake in her mouth. She wasn't certain the reason for the apology, but it felt like what he wanted from her. At the very least, it would have been what her grandmother had wanted from her.

The gentle rumble of laughter from her father was, once again, unexpected. “Do not apologize for being who you are, mäuschen. We must always be proud of who we are.” The hand on her shoulder gave a gentle squeeze, “Be as proud of yourself as I am of you.”

 


	5. 1939

1939

 

It was late January when everything seemed to change, and her father's words of taking pride in who they were were quickly forgotten when the man on the radio began his speeches. This man, who shouted so proudly over the cheers of those in his command, with his hateful accusations against her people.

That first night that she had heard the words, Brigid wished for the first time that she was not able to speak and understand the language of her father, and could have stayed in blissful ignorance like some of the children in her school.

_Creative men of all nations, recognize your common enemy._ Who was this man, to think that they were his enemy? She could think of no person in their community who ever would have done anything worth such hate.

Days later, Brigid awoke in the middle of the night, uncertain as to what it was that had woken her. As she sat in her room, she listened until the midnight sounds of her home became more clear; the soft breathing of Caleb in his bed across from her own. Nana's snoring down the hall. A clock that was at the top of the stairs ticking away. And finally, the sound that she realized was not meant to be there, the faint hiss of static from the radio downstairs.

Pulling herself out of bed, Brigid slipped quietly down the stairs to shut off the source of the noise. Reaching the top of the stairs, she was surprised to find that she was not the only one awake. Her father, seated in his large chair beside the fire place, seemed unaware that the programming had ended, and the radio spoke nothing but static to him.

“Papa?” It was late. Or it was early, she couldn't tell which way; the sun was long from rising, and it felt in that small moment as if she and her father were the only two people awake in the entire town, perhaps the entire Earth. Her father looked tired, she noted. Hours earlier, during the broadcast, he had looked angrier than she had ever seen, but now... he just looked very, very tired.

“Papa... you need to go to bed.” She said this as assertively as she could, hoping to borrow her mother's strict tone and have it be effective for once. Her father shut his eyes, hesitating a moment before reaching one hand up to rub at his face. After a silent pause, he gave a nod, and gestured with his free hand towards the stairs.

“Go back to bed, Brigid. I will sleep soon, I promise you.”

She could not remember the last time her father had referred to her by her name, instead of his usual nickname for her, when he was not upset with her. Silently, the girl slipped back up the stairs, waiting and listening for the sound of her father retiring to his own bedroom.

When morning finally came around and returned downstairs, her father was still in his chair beside the radio, empty static continuing to fill the family room. Nana was very clear that she and Caleb should play outside for the day, to give their father his space.

She could tell, even then, that things would never be the same.

* * *

Her mother had unplugged the radio two weeks earlier, when her father began to refuse to do anything but sit beside the thing, listening for hours. It was only through the family next door that they had any idea of what had happened in the world around them.

“...an invasion, Natalia. They have invaded Poland, I hear this on the radio early yesterday morning,” came the quick, hushed voice of their neighbour. Old Miss Edith, who never seemed to mind her own business, had more than once tattled on the things she had seen Brigid getting up to from her front window. This time, something was different to her voice; she did not sound so much self-important, as simply terrified. “The world is going to war.”

From where she stood, hidden behind the door frame into the kitchen, Brigid would just make out her father's mutterings about how it was all nonsense, only to be quickly shushed by her grandmother. The conversation continued on in muted whispers, and the girl was desperate to know _who_ invaded, and why, and what this war had to do with any of them.

She was shook from her thoughts by Caleb, whose small hand had taken quick hold of hers when he saw the concern on her face. Shaking her hand free from his own with a quiet noise of discomfort, Brigid pushed Caleb out towards the yard.

“Come, schnecke. We can find some other snails for you to play with.” Perhaps, if they pretended hard enough, they could block out the sound of their mother crying.

* * *

The yellow symbol had been affixed to her school uniform hastily, the frayed edges of the patch coming off as Brigid picked at the points of the star. As desperately as she wanted to question why she and Caleb had needed to have them sewn onto their uniforms, the look in her mother's eyes as she had handed the altered uniforms back to them had silenced her.

Her mother had always looked sad, but this was different.

Looking around the household, it was not just the children who wore this new badge. Her father's uniform had it sewn onto it as well. It looked out of place on her mother's flowery dress, but perfectly matched the silver necklace that her grandmother always wore around her neck. Slowly, Brigid came to realize that all of the people who lived on the same street as her family wore the star, and many of the children in her school as well.

The boy that she had been sweet on did not wear the star, and refused to talk to any of the girls who did. When she had told this to her father, he got that look in his eyes that he seemed to have more often than not, lately-- somewhere lost between rage and sadness-- and simply pulled her into his arms.

No soothing words came from his lips that night.

 


	6. 1942

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, more missing years. There are notably time gaps in her childhood, partly because Brigid wouldn't find them important enough to list in her narrative, but mostly because I couldn't find any important enough events to write about in those years.

1942

Train Station, somewhere near Niederhagen, Germany

Brigid knew the girl standing a short distance away, huddled up beside the rest of her family, from school. Lydia. Her father had been shot-- when she wasn't supposed to be looking, the young teen had peeled back the curtains from her window to see the shooting. Dead, in the middle of the street, the men with the cross on their lapel having shot him in the head. The shot seemed to echo endlessly down the street.

It was not the first time she had seen blood. Her mother screamed at the sight, pulling her daughter away from the window-- panicked about the effects that seeing such a terror would have on her child. But in truth, Brigid did not feel terrified by the sight. Curiosity instead filled her.

Something was wrong with her, her grandmother had always said, and so she tried to seem frightened by the things she had witnessed. Those thoughts returned at the sight of Lydia, and yet she still didn't feel what she knew they wanted from her. If the other girl's father had wanted to survive, he should not have fought. It was as simple as that.

The whistle on the train screamed overhead, and Brigid had only half a second to clap her hands over her ears before she was being pushed alongside her family onto the train.

 

Somewhere outside of Gross-Rosen, Poland

Seven people in their train car had died. Their bodies were covered as best as their families could manage, in some cases with the very coats they had been wearing only hours prior. It was the best that they could manage.

Brigid watched them from her spot in the corner, back resting against the suitcase that her grandmother had managed to pack, or perhaps had always kept packed by the door. Caleb's head rested on her lap, but she found herself paying little mind to the quiet child. Instead, her gaze locked onto the chests of the dead men, watching, waiting as if to see if another breath would be taken.

Her grandmother looked weaker with every day that passed; everyone did. Their complexion was becoming pale, their skin cold and cracked. Tugging her jacket tighter against her body, Brigid did the best she could to curl in on herself without waking her sleeping brother.

_It would all be over soon._ She heard a man saying that, earlier. _It would all be over soon._

 

Auschwitz, Poland

Twelve people had died by the time the train arrived, on their little car alone. Brigid covered her ears as they exited the train, unable to stand the sounds-- screaming, crying, shouting. So much confusion, and above all that noise, the sound of the soldiers barking orders in a tongue she was fortunate enough to understand.

Off to her side, a soldier fought with a woman who was desperately trying to hold on to her suitcase. Everything she had left was inside, and she was being ordered to leave it behind. Her father had easily passed their things over, despite her mother's silent resistance. All Brigid had were a few dresses, her books. Easy things to leave behind.

She was herded into a line, alongside her mother and grandmother. Her father, across from them, smiled in their direction: the expression on his face made her mother cry. Caleb was in her arms, too frightened at the prospect of being separated to walk on his own, and he gingerly patted at his mother's wet face. Throughout the noise of people crying and soldiers shouting, Brigid could hear a sharp gunshot.

The woman on the platform wasn't screaming anymore.

The lines moved onward until they found themselves at a crossroads: a man stood ahead of them, making gestures that seemed to instruct the soldiers on where to send each individual. In the back of her mind, Brigid was reminded of a game they had played on the schoolyard, involving running forward when someone's back was turned, stopping still if they looked. There was no stopping for long here, however, as the man seemed to have little trouble making his decisions.

For her mother, brother, and grandmother, he gestured to the left; and as Brigid stepped forward, she met the eyes of the man who the other soldiers seemed to be taking their commands from-- and sure enough, he seemed to be watching her back.

For the first time, she felt a twinge of fear squirm about inside of her stomach.

He gestured to the right.

* * *

"Undress."

The order was barked, not at her in particular, but at the group of women she stood among. They had been marched away from the unloading ramps to a building where they had given these men all of their information-- some women having to try and speak over their tears at being separated from their families. Brigid's face remained dry, yet confusion overtook her at this latest command.

The order was repeated, and it was with shaking hands that the women obeyed. Shivering, Brigid removed the outer jacket that she wore, still emblazoned with the Jewish star, before shedding the dress underneath. Last came her underthings, looped simply over her arm, leaving her completely naked before these men.

A soldier was watching her far too closely, and at last asked in the same commanding voice as the other had made his orders, “How old are you, girl?”

“Sixteen.” She did not allow her voice to shake, even as her fingers did, toying with the buttons on the shed apparel. The soldier did not speak to her again, but seemed far too pleased at having any sort of response.

They were quickly ordered to leave their clothing behind, before they were marched off again. The tattoos came next, and Brigid was certain that she would never forget such a pain in her life as when the needle pierced her skin. One of the men had been required to hold her still as she squirmed from the white hot sensation-- when he was finished, she was left with blood and ink smeared across her arm, a number that would now become her identity.

She thought of the laws her grandmother had taught her, was reminded that marking her body was a sin. It seemed these men knew what they were doing.

Next, they were shaved. Every bit of hair removed from her body, Brigid couldn't help but shudder at how truly naked she felt in that moment. Showered in water that may as well have been ice, the girl was shaking as she exited, almost eager to put on whatever clothing they offered her. The uniform was uncomfortable, scratched against her skin, but it covered her nudity, and for that she was grateful.

The rest of the night passed for the young woman in a blur-- being lead to where she would sleep, being explained the protocol. Finally, after what felt like years, she was able to fall asleep amidst the sounds of anguish and fear.

* * *

If someone had asked if Brigid ever thought her dainty hands would one day have her brought to the doctors, she would have said it was ridiculous. She had been fortunate enough to have small fingers, very good for threading needles, which had earned her a job of sorts working on uniform repairs. When the doctors had found themselves in need of someone with steady hands, she had been pulled from her daily work to come into what she considered to be 'the hospital.'

And now here she stood, facing the same man she had seen upon her entrance into the camps. She had heard younger children in the camps call him Uncle Mengele. He was a handsome man, she found as she observed him, with a curious glint in his eyes. As if he could see beyond what was in front of him.

“You speak German, Fraulein?”

The Doctor spoke with such an eerily friendly tone, and Brigid felt herself cocking her head before replying, “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good. Now, let me see your hands-- ah, very dainty fingers you have. Very feminine hands.” His inspection was a quick one, done by taking each of her hands in his own to observe the size ( and, she suspected, cleanliness ) of her fingers. “She will do. Fraulein, you are going to be helping the doctors today. We need someone with good hands.”

Brigid knew better than to question someone in any position of power, so she simply nodded her consent. She _also_ knew that it would not have mattered had she given it or not.

And that was how she began: threading needles for the doctors, passing over tools for them to use during their procedures, and learning all the while. Watching silently, taking in as much of the curious biology and medicine that she could.

* * *

“Herr Mengele... your doctor is making a mistake.”

She never had been able to stay silent for long; upon observing the younger of the doctors under Mengele's care, she had witnessed a critical error in the proportions of one of his experiments. Brigid had been watching them long enough, and she found it easy enough to pick out the tiny intricacies in their work. The man she had spoken out against, however, seemed less than impressed at having a child correct him.

“Excuse me?” His voice was a shrill one, the sort that made Brigid need to shut her eyes to focus on, pitch rising as he spoke out in his disgust, “What could a girl like you _possibly_ know about this?”

Her expression never changed, neutral as she stepped closer to the project the doctor was so focused on. A woman lay on the bed before him, chest rising and falling rapidly. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Brigid thought back to the bodies she had seen on the train. This one was still breathing, but she likely wouldn't be for long.

She should have felt sad. She should have felt _something_.

Instead, she stayed silent, watching as Mengele observed what the younger doctor had done so far. For a moment, his expression twisted-- anger, perhaps, appearing on his face-- as he pulled the hypodermic needle out from the man's hand, slamming it back onto the silver tray beside the table. As he turned on Brigid, the girl shut her eyes and waited for the inevitable. A beating, or worse. Neither came; instead, in a voice that was riddled with curiosity, the doctor questioned her, “How can a _child_ know such a thing?”

Opening her eyes once more, she watched the doctor a long moment before exhaling an unnerved breath, “Sometimes, I just know.”

How else could she explain it? She had always had a mind for science, her teachers had said it since she was but a little girl. Now, with the opportunity to watch, to learn, she had absorbed as much as she possibly could-- yet, some of it remained inexplicably instinctual.

He straightened, frowned, “Then why tell me?”

Why, indeed? She knew the crimes he was committing against her people, and how unapologetically he would continue to do so. To kill, to torture, to maim. She could have said nothing, could never say anything and only do as she was told.

“Well...” She began, after only a moment's hesitation, and she felt the strangest sensation of a smile on her lips, “If you are going to do such things, at least you should do them... _properly_.”

 


	7. 1943

1943

Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland

 

She had become something of a pet project for the doctors, it seemed. Among their kind and the other officers, she had gained an endearing nickname, _Das Wunderkind_ \-- the Wonder Child. The Germans, it seemed, and the doctors in particular, were quite fond of her skills.

And yet, she'd quickly grown bored of it.

It was always the same thing with these doctors and scientists, Brigid had come to realize; blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin. Even as she watched the effects of the dyes that had been so carefully dripped into the eyes of the young patient on the table before her, she couldn't help but be bored with the finality of it all. Should they succeed, all they would have done would be to change the colour of a child's eyes-- and how impressive was that, really?

Jotting down her notes over the discomforted cries of the boy, she couldn't help feeling that she wanted, needed to know more than just that. She felt colorblind in a world so focused on these sorts of things. What she wanted to know was _why_ people were born the way they were. Why the soldiers around her had been born strong, but men from the same town could be born so weak. Why she had been born with a mind for such knowledge, when even those in her household could not fathom to understand it.

Deeper than beyond the surface of the skin, she wanted to understand human beings and mankind.

 


	8. 1944

1944

Auschwitz, Poland

 

The pregnancies were the worst, Brigid decided.

Children had always unsettled her at the best of times. Caleb had been a rare exception, and he was gone now. Always so quick to touch you, to touch her clothing and hands without permission. It made her want to cringe, to lash out. Yet while children unsettled her, newborns _disgusted_ her. Writhing, screaming, crying and utterly useless without their mothers, they made her want to hide away. The first time she had been handed a newborn child while in the care of the doctors, she had dropped the damned thing.

It had been dead already, her mentor had assured her. She didn't feel any better for it.

And it wasn't only the children themselves that unsettled her; watching the way a mother's belly would swell over the weeks before the birth made her own internal organs seem to squirm with nausea. Yes-- in her logical mind, she knew the skin was designed to stretch in such a way, knew that women were designed for this sort of task, and yet... she could not help but consistently have the image of a balloon in her mind, overfilled and ready to burst at any second.

The woman on the table was particularly special, though Brigid was loath to admit it. The patient's stomach was extended beyond capability of hiding, two children taking up the space where one would ordinarily become evident. Her mentor, upon realizing what he had within his grasp, had spent the last few weeks leading up to this date positively giddy.

Twins. A genetic oddity, nothing more than a split zygote, and yet it brought the calm and collected man that Brigid so respected such thrill. She could never understand it.

The birth went by with little of note. Two small, weak baby boys were born, and their mother had no chance to hold them before she was carted off. Instead, the children were held by Mengele himself while Brigid set about readying the syringes. Filling them with the clear liquid, Brigid flicked the side of the glass to clear the few air bubbles that remained. Not that it matter, she noted, preparing to pass the syringes off to the doctors.

Chloroform. The death was so quick that she doubted much if the children would even know what had happened, if they were capable of knowing anything at all during this stage of life.

The syringe was passed back.

“Come now, my girl,” There was such humour dancing in the words the doctor spoke, “If you wish to learn, you need to participate.”

In the end, plunging the needle into the heart had been no different than dissecting the frogs.

 


	9. 1945

1945

Auschwitz, Poland

 

Sleep did not come easily, no matter how many years she would spend in the barracks. It did not help that, even among her own people, she had become a pariah-- sentenced to her own by the things that she had done. She almost preferred it, but the nights became a strange and cold time. Those were the times when her mind would wander.

Often, her dreams were simple, day to day tasks. A memory here and there of her school life, of people she had once known, of a solution to a problem she had been stuck on that day. On the nights when her mind felt like being particularly cruel, she would dream of her father.

Most often, when she dreamt of her father, the dreams were simple ones: sitting upon his lap, her father would read to her the stories he had loved as a child. Fairy tales, fantastic and magical words. It had been difficult, even as a girl, for Brigid to accept that things in stories happened because of “magic,” an unexplained force that just _happened_. Even then, her father had been so patient with her.

The only person in her world who was willing to listen to her. The person she loved most.

She was awoken from the peaceful sleep by an earth shattering sound, something that broke through her mind louder than the daily gunshots had ever been able to do. Waking had been sudden, but understanding what was happening was a slower process. The other women who shared a sleeping space with her were shouting-- _fire in the sky_. An explosion.

The puzzle soon fell into place; the crematoriums had been destroyed by the soldiers. The Soviet Army was approaching.

The following hours moved in a strange pace. The soldiers who had been watching over the camps were gone, along with hundreds of others who had been imprisoned there. The doctors, including her own mentor, had seemingly vanished. Bodies were everywhere. The noise was too much for her to handle, and Brigid found herself hiding herself in the barracks with dozens of other women.

It wasn't until the realization and shouts that they were free erupted through the camp that the women left, leaving Brigid alone with her solitude and the corpses that remained.

* * *

The Red Army was quick to march onward, chasing down their enemy through the winter. The newly freed prisoners of Auschwitz were finally able to journey towards home-- or whatever was waiting for them there now.

It was then that Brigid realized that, for the first time, she was truly alone.

* * *

It took her longer than Brigid expected to return to her family home; no trains would take her without money, and she knew better than to trust the men who would offer her a hand. She had heard the tales from other women travelling of the soldiers who wanted nothing more than to get their hands on a young woman.

“Pretty thing like you, they would eat you alive...” An older woman had eerily warned her one evening, as a group of six or seven of them had huddled in an abandoned barn in the countryside. She'd done her best to put the warning out of her mind, but every time a man passed by her too closely, she shuddered.

Returning home should have finally brought her peace; it did not.

The cold building that had once been home was now nothing more than a building, nothing but stones and mortar. Broken glass from shattered windows littered the floors. Anything of worth her family had left behind was long gone. The wallpaper still showed the faint outlines of where picture frames had lined the walls.

She had been living there for only a week when that first rock had come through the last, unbroken window. In the dead of night, as she slept, it had come flying inside to wake her with no warning attached.

Two days later, she woke to a message painted across her door. _Malakhamoves_. It seemed that while the Germans had praised her skill, called her a wonder child, her own people saw her through very different eyes, proclaiming her to be an angel of death.

She left the house that night, and never returned to it.

 


	10. 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this chapter ALSO takes place during 1945. However, it's separated because this is where the next... sort of arc of the story starts.

1945

London, England

 

“I do not understand.”

It was not a matter of language; since moving to the city, Brigid was glad to discover that her comprehension of English was much better than her actual ability to speak it. She found that she was capable enough to apply to study the sciences that she had been practicing in the camps in an actual laboratory, and perhaps even better was that she had been accepted. Since then, studying and experiments had taken over her life more than ever before.

It was when her mentors discovered that she had been working for three days straight without so much as the faintest concern for food that they thought to send her to the schools nurse, which resulted in her being seated in this gentleman's office, trying to make out the faint script on his diploma, hanging proudly behind the desk. The golden nameplate on his desk caught her attention just as suddenly, and she began slowly tracing each letter of his name with her eyes. _Albert Coffer._ She could see her reflection in the metallic plating.

“Miss Tenenbaum, we believe that you suffer from a... a unique condition. We're not trying to imply that anything is wrong with you, per se... it's just that you may have a different way of thinking from the rest of us.”

Brigid spared a glance at the typed sheet laying on the desk before her, the diagnoses of these doctors spelled out for her and marked out in red pen. “I do not have any disorder. I am healthy, perfectly healthy.”

“My dear, this condition does not mean you are not healthy. Simply that... well, that your mind does not process things the way the rest of us do. Have you never noticed that you react to things differently than, say, the rest of your family?”

He must have caught the way her expression stilled, the scratching of nails across a long healed wound on her forearm. “Or from the other members of your research group. Miss Tenenbaum, we simply wish for you to consider meeting with me every so often, to talk through any... any possible issues you may be having.”

“I do not have any disorder.” She could feel the words repeating themselves, tone firm. He wasn't listening to her, she felt. Couldn't possibly understand what it was like to be inside of her head, so why did he believe he so simply understood her from a mere handful of interactions? “I do not want to talk to you about this anymore.”

Despite her insistence, she did not get out of the chair, eyes still locked on that paper before her. _Autism_. The word struck at her, burned her more than the wounds she had suffered. To be labelled as broken, as weaker than the others... It was something she could not accept.

“Brigid,” Dr. Coffer's change to her first name made her flinch, “Please just... consider it. And if you do end up changing your mind... Well, you know where to find me.”

That was enough permission for her, and without so much as another word, she rose from the seat, snatched the paper with her cursed diagnoses off the desk, and exited the office. Who did he think he was? Who did they think they were, the men who oversaw her studies, who thought it was any of their business how she chose to take care of herself? What they viewed as unhealthy felt perfectly normal to her. She had not been sick, had not passed out from exhaustion or malnourishment as they seemed so worried she would do.

She would show them. The same as she had when these men around her said that a gentle woman should not be doing the work that she did: she would prove them all wrong once again. This would not hold her back.

* * *

EXPERIMENTS CALLED INTO QUESTION: HAS YOUNG WOMAN GONE TOO FAR IN HER THEORIES?

THE WORK OF A LOCAL STUDENT, BRIGID TENENBAUM, IS BEING CALLED INTO QUESTION THIS WEEK. OFTEN PRAISED AS A PRODIGY CHILD, THE YOUNG WOMAN IS NOW HAVING HER WORK INVESTIGATED AFTER A FELLOW SCIENTIST IN HER WORK GROUP DISCOVERED NOTES IN ONE OF HER STUDY LOGS THAT DETAILED EXPERIMENTS PARTAKING IN CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY. WHEN APPROACHED, THE YOUNG WOMAN INSISTED THAT THESE WERE SIMPLY THEORIES, AND THAT WITHOUT HUMAN TEST SUBJECTS, COULD NEVER BE PERFORMED. CONCERN IS RAISED AS TO WHAT LENGTHS THE WOMAN WOULD GO TO IN ORDER TO PREFORM HER EXPERIMENTS, AND JUST WHAT WOULD HAPPEN TO ANY 'WILLING' PARTICIPANTS IN HER WORK...

\--Daily Mirror, December 1945

 


	11. 1946

1946

London, England

 

The letter had been placed carefully on her doorstep, not jammed haphazardly into her mail slot the way the usual carrier seemed so inclined to deliver her things. The post mark was one she did not recognize, hailing all the way from New York City-- from America. Glancing down the hall at the man who always seemed to be watching people come and go, Brigid picked up the letter and gestured towards him with it.

“You! Who is delivering this letter? You are seeing him, yes?”

The man, an elderly fellow she could never quite seem to remember the name of, simply gave her a shaky shrug of his shoulders, “It wasn't the usual mail carrier, that's about all I can tell you, Miss. You were the only one who got a letter from him. Just dropped it off and left, like that.” The man made a gesture with his hand, but his fingers didn't snap.

Frowning, Brigid pushed her way past the creaking door of her apartment, locking the door behind her before depositing the letter on her counter. It took ten minutes before she finally convinced herself to open the damned thing, halfway expecting to find some cruelty inside, some person who wished to see her dead for the things that she had done. It would not have been her first time receiving such a letter.

Instead, she found, typed cleanly out:

_Miss Brigid Tenenbaum,_

_My name is Andrew Ryan. I have heard a great deal about you, word travelling across the sea to where I find myself in these United States. You have been making headlines of a most unfortunate nature, I am afraid. Being told no by those who wish to bind you to their ways and their morality, by people who believe that what you wish to see done is wrong. But I wish to make you an offer. I have envisioned a place where people like you and I can be free from the parasites who wish to censor us, who wish to control us. I believe you would be a great benefit to this great dream, Miss Tenenbaum._

_Forgive me for not explaining everything in a single letter. Should this message fall into the wrong hands, I wish to have my protection. However, should this letter find itself in your hands, and you wish to know what exactly it is I am offering you, then please return to me with your correspondence as soon as possible._

_I eagerly await your reply,_

_Andrew Ryan_

A seal at the end of the letter bore an ornate lighthouse, with the sun setting behind it. Andrew Ryan-- the name was not familiar to her, but she doubted if that was much of a surprise, for a man living across the ocean.

 _A place where people like you and I can be free_... Ridiculous, and yet she found herself tucking the letter back inside the envelope for safe keeping. First, she would find out more about this Andrew Ryan character. Then, and only then, would she even consider writing back to him on this absurd offer.

* * *

Finding information on the man who had sent her the mysterious letter proved to be easier than Brigid had expected. A handful of years older than herself, his family had fled her own country of birth during the Revolution, as the Bolsheviks came to power. Since then, he had become well known in the United States as a man who made weapons or some such things during the war.

More recently, he was known for having burned his park lands to the ground when their congress had moved to nationalize the land.

Reports of him in the news had tapered off following Hiroshima-- his last quotations in the media had been of his disbelief and fear for the utter destruction of mankind by way of nuclear fallout-- a common and growing concern these days, it seemed-- and then nothing. He had withdrawn from society, into his mansions and towers. Now, it seemed, with this odd letter that she ( and, she suspected, many others ) had received, she understood what he had been doing.

Planning. _Building_.

Wandering through her mediocre apartment, Brigid took a moment to weigh her options. She knew, should she choose to stay, what she had; an apartment with paper thin walls and neighbours who never minded their own business. A job where the men would constantly criticize her, question her. Doctors who believed they knew best for her, wanted to subject her to medications and tests. Tests that she suspected she knew better than those 'doctors' ever would.

If she gave it up for a world that possibly did not even exist, was she daring or a fool?

At the end of the day, what did she have to lose?

* * *

The correspondence between Brigid and Andrew Ryan was frequently short and to the point. She had mentioned, in her first response to his initial letter, that she was not so certain whether or not she should trust a man with a reputation such as his. He had insisted that she could find no one better to trust, because what could he possibly have gained by lying. Ryan would never take her money-- it was dishonest, and moreover it was against his entire life's philosophy to steal or to take handouts from another human being.

He believed in owning what you had made for yourself, and nothing more. It was a philosophy that the woman had to respect; everything she had owned in the world had been stolen from her after the war. Her home, her belongings, her identity. Everything she had now, she had made for herself. He even had a name for the school of thought: libertarianism. _Free-thinkers_ , he called those like himself, who would refuse to accept involvement of the church and state in their business.

Ryan had a vision. It was something that he never could fully put into words in his letters-- the man was horribly paranoid about government interception-- and yet from what he did say, Brigid found herself being more and more drawn into this idea, his concept of a utopia.

And so were many others, if the reports were to be believed. All over the world, people were 'disappearing;' moguls, scientists, doctors. Any who Ryan believed would be a benefit to his great vision was extended an invitation, and then would disappear from the public eye without so much as a word. The news reports called it The Vanishing.

Each of the letters Andrew Ryan had sent to her were piled together now, sitting in the hearth of the antiquated wood stove in her apartment. Her residence-- she had never quite adjusted to calling it home, and it had never felt much like it anyway-- had always been minimally decorated, but now it was bare, as if no one lived there at all. In a suitcase by the door were her meager belongings: a handful of clothes, the books and journals that she had collected, a bag of sweets she was particularly fond of, and a train ticket North to Edinburgh.

She hadn't quit her studies at the University, hadn't said anything to the landlord or her neighbours about leaving. For all they would know, they would wake up tomorrow and Brigid Tenenbaum would simply be gone. Striking the match in her hand against the rough surface of the wood stove, she allowed the red-orange light to warm her a moment, before she tossed it onto the letters. The paper browned and curled before finally lighting, removing any sign that she had ever been in contact with Ryan.

Once the paper had burned and become no more recognizable than the ashes beneath it, Brigid stood from the warmth of the stove, locked the door, and left her apartment-- another home abandoned in search of something, something she did not have a name for. Something she hoped she would find in Andrew Ryan's utopia.

 


	12. 1946

1946

The _Olympian_

Somewhere in the North Atlantic

 

Three hours earlier, Brigid had refused the sea-sickness pill offered to her on dry land, and was now beginning to regret her decision. The ocean waves were unkind, as if fighting against the crew of Ryan's large ship-- and yet the men who steered Her seemed perfectly confident in their actions. As they should be, she supposed, having made this journey countless times by now.

Two weeks prior, Brigid had finally had the opportunity to meet Andrew Ryan face to face. She, along with several others who shared his vision, had arrived where he had been staying in Reykjavik. After their own long journeys, they had been quick to retire to their own beds, but the impression Ryan had made on them in such a short amount of time was a powerful one. He was a smaller man than Brigid had imagined, and yet it made him no less powerful in his presence. Piercing eyes and a knowing smile, he was intimidating and simultaneously managed to have a personality that drew people to him.

In a word, Brigid had been _impressed_.

She had rarely seen 'The Great Man' ( as his bodyguard, Sullivan, had been caught referring to him as ) since; it seemed his great city was still being constructed, and every day and every detail called for his attention. It had given Brigid two weeks where, instead of mingling among the other guests who would soon become her neighbours in this mysterious venture, she had wandered the city on her own, taking in her last few days on the surface.

 _The Surface._ Ryan had spoken those words with such distaste, as if it wasn't the very place in which he himself had come from. The place they were going lay far beneath the waves, far from the touches of the 'parasites that roamed.' His language, at times, reminded her of a biologist she had met briefly in London, who was always so concerned about parasitic creatures and microscopic germs. Ryan was not so afraid of the small, as he was disgusted with the majority of the Earth.

The ship lurched suddenly, bringing Brigid's mind to the present and her stomach to her throat. An acidic taste burned the back of her throat, bile quickly swallowed back as she stumbled away from the sides of the ship, eyes shutting in an attempt to block out the sensations of motion. It did little, and she soon found herself leaning against the wall of the cabins behind her.

Somewhere inside, she heard a champagne cork pop, followed by a squeal of laughter. Brigid decided she much preferred the sound of the waves and the wind.

* * *

“It's alright, folks, she ain't as bad as she looks.”

The submersible-- Brigid heard the word ' _bathysphere_ ' thrown around, though the word felt heavy and unmanageable on her tongue-- had been lowered onto the deck by a heavy crane. Large and round, the outer shell of the thing was in a blazed copper colour, the inside lined with red velvet covered seats. In the center of the seats sat a console with a collection of switches and flashing buttons. The inside of the sub looked like it would be quite spacious for two; unfortunately, there were six of them about to squeeze inside of the damned thing.

With their complaints kept strictly to themselves, the small group tucked themselves inside. The scent of saltwater seemed trapped inside, mixing with the intermingling perfumes and the thick air to make for an unpleasant scent. The opening to the bathysphere was shut with a heavy clang, and for a moment, the group sat in a heavy silence-- broken only when the winch overhead cried out, the metal orb being lifted up in the air, and carefully lowered over the side of the boat.

Had it not been for the prior explanation about how the bathyspheres worked on a radio signal of sorts, she would have been certain they were going to leave them to suffocate on the ocean floor.

They hit the water harder than Brigid had expected, causing her to jostle in her seat and bump the man beside her, who did little but huff in her direction. They sat for a moment on the surface, still connected by way of the winch overhead, bobbing aimlessly before they were released, and their transport began to slip beneath the water's surface.

For a long moment, it felt as if Brigid couldn't breathe. Crammed inside the submersible with so many other people, her mind momentarily jumped backward, returning her to the trains, and an all-too-familiar nausea overwhelmed her. Glancing around to those who shared the space with her, it was easy enough to see that she was not alone in her discomfort-- a man to her right was turning an unpleasant minty shade of green, and the woman on the edge of the seat on the right side of the craft was breathing into her embroidered handkerchief.

Adding to the scene was the juxtaposing music, a jazzy instrumental that seemed altogether familiar, yet couldn't be placed by Brigid. Beneath the music, the sounds of creaking metal, of water rushing around them. A screen dropping down on the opposite side of the opening garnered their attention as a new sound flickered to life beneath the music; the face of Andrew Ryan was projected before them, his voice coming through over a recording.

"I am Andrew Ryan, and I'm here to ask you a question: Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow? 'No,' says the man in Washington, 'it belongs to the poor.' 'No,' says the man in the Vatican, 'it belongs to God.' 'No,' says the man in Moscow, 'it belongs to everyone.'" It was nearly the same monologue that he had sent out in those letters. Promises easily made, but ones that Brigid was not so certain his city could keep-- despite her hope to the contrary. Still, he continued on with fervor, "I rejected those answers; instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose... Rapture."

And as he spoke the name of his beloved city, the screen rose, revealing the large, domed window that separated them from the ocean beyond.

One of the women aboard insisted she couldn't possibly look out into the beyond, for fear she might faint. Brigid, on the other hand, could not bring herself to look away. There were no markers for their depth ('Yet to come,' Ryan had commented offhandedly on the surface.) and so it was strictly up to the young woman's imagination to picture how far below they had gone. Sunlight still threatened to shine through the darkened waters, casting an ethereal light around the moving craft.

And then, slowly, it could be made out.

Shadows on the horizon, at first. More light, reflected through the water, but being cast not from above-- from below. Large pipes that seemed to twist and turn as elegantly as the seaweed that surrounded them, matching the sandy browns and green-hued algae. Heavy glass corridors could be seen as they drew closer into the city ( 'Some day, the arrivals will be much closer to the city itself. For now, we make due.' ), pinpricks that become lit windows as they arrived.

"A city where the artist would not fear the censor; where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality; where the great would not be constrained by the small! And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well." Ryan's words faded into the background as Brigid suddenly felt very small when looking out at the underwater city, and she was reminded of the stories of Atlantis.

Slowly, it began to settle in: _this_ was the place she would call home.

A school of fish hurried out of the way as the submersible made the last of it's journey, passing by neon signs that cast their light into the small space-- Fleet Hall, she had managed to read, though others had passed by too quickly to be read. Drawing into the entrance way, the last that Brigid saw was the overhead message written in yellow light: **ALL GOOD THINGS OF THIS EARTH FLOW INTO THE CITY.**

* * *

Once it had been drawn inside, the bathysphere had traveled upwards into the city, emerging at the top of what felt like a tube. The group sat in a stunned silence for what felt to Brigid like hours, before the door to their vessel opened, and standing before them on the entrance platform was Andrew Ryan once more.

Dressed in a brown suit, the man somehow managed to seem both calm and thrilled at his new arrivals. Glancing to his feet, Brigid noted that he stood on a long, red carpet that traveled the rest of the way down the long hall. Behind him, great pillars shaped like stone gods rose out of the floor, holding up the tall ceilings, and between them, great windows that showed the expanse beyond.

Vaguely aware of Ryan greeting each of them, Brigid drew herself back to the moment just as his hand reached for her own, “Miss Tenenbaum. I am pleased you decided to join us... I have a gentleman who is looking forward to speaking with you, I think you might be a wonderful addition to his team. That is, if you think you would be interested in working in a real laboratory?”

The rest of the group seemed to have their eyes trained on her, though whether they were actually looking or if it was all in her mind was difficult to say. Shaking the man's hand, Brigid did not bother to force a smile onto her face as she answered, “Very interested. I am hoping to... be able to study in ways I am not able on the surface.”

Her broken English sounded strange, but was understood if Ryan's smile was to be any hint. He gently patted the back of her hand before releasing her to begin his tour of the city. Following at the back of the group, Brigid listened absently as Ryan explained the train system through Rapture, how it would connect each of the parts of the city to one another.

In a glass display case, Brigid noted a miniature of the city, stepping away from the tour to observe the item. Rapture, it seemed, was not so much one city sunken the the bottom of the sea, but several small cities, connected by large glass hallways and bathysphere transport. Beyond the city, the miniature showed a dip in the ocean floor, and the woman tried desperately to think of whether or not she had seen anything resembling that on the ocean floor as they passed into the city.

“Miss Tenenbaum?”

Ryan had returned back down the stairs at the end of the hall, and was watching her now with something akin to suspicion in his dark eyes. “We were just about to leave the Welcome Center. I would hate for you to be lost in our fair city before you even get the chance to really see it.”

The inflection in his statement made it clear that his words, though serious, were intended to be taken as a joke-- although Brigid could not quite bring herself to laugh. Instead, her eyes darted away from the miniature and she gave a nod, returning to the hall and staying only a few steps behind the man. “ _Apologies_. It is... There is so much to see, is all. I am finding myself to be... _distracted_.”

“I would rather have you distracted-- no, _enraptured_ by my city than bored of it already... Still, perhaps until we have you settled in, it may be best you stay alongside the rest of us.”

The doors to the Welcome Center exit were pushed open easily, and Brigid was nearly stunned to find... a city. Not just buildings and lights, but a thriving metropolis beyond those doors. People who had already moved to Rapture-- some of them Ryan's men, others guests like herself-- were bustling about their daily lives. Shopping, chatting, living.

Rapture was not only real, it was _alive_.

The rest of the tour passed in a relative calm. Every so often, someone would stop Ryan to speak with him, to share some latest bit of praise of gossip, and he would humour them with a businessman's smile before sending them on their way. Soon, the group were dropped off at their respective apartments where their belongings were waiting for them.

Brigid had been surprised at just how thoroughly Andrew Ryan and his men had gone over the things that each resident was bringing into Rapture. There was a list of prohibited items, everything from bibles and religious symbols to certain drug items. If it was produced on the Surface, Ryan wanted to have nothing to do with it in his city. For Brigid, all she had to bring with her were a small handful of scientific texts, a journal that had been given to her by her mentor, and her clothing. Any sign of her religion had been stricken from her during the war, and she had made no effort to recover it afterwards.

God had failed her in Auschwitz; perhaps science would allow her to prosper here.

* * *

Brigid had been in Rapture for just under a week when she met Augustus Sinclair.

A portly, dark skinned man, Sinclair spoke with a thick Southern drawl over a natural accent, making him at times difficult for the younger woman to understand. On top of the accent, he spoke as a businessman, quick and in terms that she was not always able to follow-- the sort of man who made Brigid feel as if he was always trying to pull something over on her.

“I heard a lot about you, kid, all from the Great Man himself.” Brigid narrowly resisted the urge to spit that she was not a _child_ and managed to remain silent, allowing for Sinclair to continue on, “Says you've been working on those, what do he call 'em, genetic experiments? Like they did in them camps over in Europe. Now, listen, I'm no 'man of science' but I've got a good sense of business-- and while it may not be as glamorous as what you might have been up to on the surface, I think you've got a good mind for development here.”

If Sinclair thought that she had been able to follow any of his nonsense, he was mistaken. “What I'm saying, kid, is that I've got a laboratory chock full of whatever it is you could need for your experiments. In exchange for lab space, you work for me and I get a... a _portion_ of the rights to whatever it is you come up with. That sounds fair, right?”

Brigid had no basis for comparison on what was _fair_ for her work: most of her scientific career, she had been working under orders. The past year, her experiments were so heavily watched that she found it difficult to truly get anything done. Freedom, space, and the ability to finally discover what it was she had been searching for. All of that in exchange for his own monetary gain?

“This is... sounding fair, _Herr_ Sinclair.” The sounds echoed one another, and she grimaced at her own words. “I think this should be working out perfectly.”

 


	13. 1947

1947

Sinclair Solutions, Rapture

It was during a bit of work she was doing on behalf of Sinclair and Ryan that Brigid first met Dr. Yi Suchong. It had not taken long before she realized that working with the man would not be an easy task; Suchong was easily ten years her senior and behaved as if she was nothing more than an uneducated child who had no business being in his laboratory. On top of his general attitude was the fact that the man spoke only Korean and broken English, far worse than her own, and refused to repeat himself when he was not understood the first time.

Still, despite the frustrations surrounding her work partner, she had to admit that she was learning a great deal from him. While Brigid considered herself a specialist when it came to genetics-- a passion she had no doubt picked up from her mentor-- Suchong was a specialist in a great number of other areas, including more physical treatments of the body.

Even while working in vastly different fields and experiments, she found that it was something of a comfort to know that she was perhaps not so alone in a city ruled by the best and brightest of the surface world.

Her latest experiments had been low key, nothing that interested Sinclair very much; she found herself very curious about the effects that living at these depths would have on the body of Rapture's citizens. Blood samples had been taken from a number of people who had been living there longer than herself-- and she did not hesitate to take her own blood for study, as well.

On paper, this research had no monetary value to her employer, but he left her to her work. Blood was easy to obtain, and she had gone through only willing participants. She was amazed how easy it was to urge people to allow her to take their blood; Sinclair would offer them a few dollars as volunteers, she would take her samples, and they would be on their way.

The problem had come when she decided to move on to another area of research; no longer on the blood, but on the reproductive probabilities of people in Rapture. After all, if living at this depth had any effect on reproduction, Rapture would be a ghost city in only a short number of years.

Taking blood was simple; getting men to allow a woman to invade their genetics through their sperm seemed to be another issue.

 


	14. 1948

1948

Artemis Suites, Apollo Square

 

She wasn't _hideous_.

It was a slow dawning realization as Brigid stood before the full length mirror bolted to the inside of her boudoir. She had never found herself particularly pretty growing up, always too awkward, too lanky. Women in her town had been so beautiful, slender and graceful beings. Looking at herself now, Brigid couldn't see much of the child she had been. Her arms and legs were still just slightly too long, but her waist had slimmed down to give her a good silhouette. Her breasts had filled out as well, she noted, allowing her hands to gently slide up and down her naked body.

It had taken two months after the war for Brigid's hair to get back to a length that she preferred. It was still as dark as her father's had been, and twice as unwieldy. Her eyes, more green than brown that morning, were not so sunken anymore, and while her lips tended to be on the dry side, she had begun to apply a red colour to them that drew out the fuller shape.

No, she wasn't hideous, but she hardly thought she was anything worth looking at. Pulling a worn romper off of its hanger, she was quick to pull it on over top of her threadbare underthings, slipping the pair of brown kitten heels that waited for her by the door onto her feet.

This particular train of thought was not a common one; rarely did she stop to even think about her clothing in the morning, much less observe herself for the better part of fifteen minutes. If it hadn't been for the comments of one of her latest volunteers in the lab, she doubted it would have even crossed her mind that morning.

His name was James, though he told her he always made a habit of introducing himself as Jimmy. Jimmy Conti, 6'2”, type AB positive. She had been preparing the tourniquet around his upper arm, vaguely aware of how closely he was watching her face, when he decided to finally speak up.

“You should let your hair down, baby doll.” Her gaze had lifted from the tourniquet only briefly, before she tightened it with a quick movement. He seemed undeterred, only chuckling at her, “I bet there's a pretty little lady hidden underneath that there lab coat...”

Brigid narrowly resisted the urge to spit in his face, and instead had chosen to knot off her tourniquet and prepare her syringe.

Even the next day, his flirtation was rattling around her head. While ordinarily she was able to put the words of men aside and focus on her work, today the thought seemed to be overlapping with those about her work. The matter of obtaining willing volunteers for sperm samples had still been a problem; was it possible that something as foolish as her femininity could be used to her advantage?

Hesitating in front of the mirror on her way out the door, Brigid did a final once over. Maybe, maybe if she did take her hair down, wore a little more make up like the other women. Undid a button or two on her blouse. It could work, couldn't it?

It could work.

* * *

Finding a man suitable to act as her volunteer had been easier than Brigid had expected. With the city still well under construction, most of the lower-class worker's spent their evenings drowning their troubles over a beer in one of Rapture's many pubs. The women who frequented these places were often either workers themselves-- Brigid was reminded of the _Rosie the Riveter_ propaganda when she saw them, clad in their overalls and heavy work gloves, faces and arms marked with dirt and rust-- or looking to get into a bit of trouble with the hard-working men.

Men of this caliber, she decided, would be easier to convince to follow her back to the lab than the socialites down in Fort Frolic. As it turned out, it was as easy as wearing a well-fitting dress and buying a man a few drinks.

He had introduced himself, but Brigid hadn't put much effort into remembering his name or offering her own. Instead, she found herself whispering into his ear, ignoring the scent of sweat and musk to murmur her little 'fantasy' of having a man take her in her workplace. She'd expected hesitation, a second question or a thought-- instead, he had practically hauled her out of the pub himself.

Even in a city full of the best the Surface had to offer, men were still men.

It had to be just past midnight when they slipped inside the dimly lit laboratory. The rest of Sinclair's researchers had long since gone home for the night, save perhaps for Suchong-- and she doubted much if the Korean would ever wander into her own office, never mind in the dark of the night.

It was easy enough to let her 'willing volunteer' kiss messily at her neck. Closing her eyes to the sounds that made her stomach churn simply looked as if she were letting herself be taken by euphoria. He was already pawing at her breasts when she grabbed his wrists, and it took a moment for Brigid to remember that she needed him to be compliant just a little bit longer.

“ _Wait_ \-- wait, I want...” She recalled the way women sounded in the films she had seen in London, soft and breathy, and attempted to make her own sound the same, “I want to make you feel good...”

She was vaguely aware of him muttering “ _Oh shit..._ ” under his breath as she lowered herself to her knees, trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation of the stainless steel floor against her skin. He was wavering, leaning backwards against her desk; apparently, she had given him just enough alcohol to intoxicate him, but not enough to make him pass out. _Unfortunate_ , as it would have made the next part easier.

The syringe was kept inside its own velvet lined box, hidden away in the confines of her handbag. He was distracted enough by her undoing his belt and pulling his pants down to his knees that she doubted he even noticed the faint 'click' of the latch being undone, didn't have any idea anything was wrong until she jammed the syringe into his testicle.

And perhaps, _perhaps_ she did it with a little too much vigor... but after having the man drool all over her for the better part of half an hour, she couldn't quite seem to help herself. Her 'volunteer' broke his silence with a sudden shout, the sound a sharp mixture of pain and surprise as he shoved her onto the floor, grabbing his pants and running out of the lab as fast as his legs would carry him.

He looked awkward, she couldn't help but notice, trying to run, pull up his pants, and dig a syringe out of his flesh simultaneously-- all the while screaming out, “The crazy bitch put a fucking spike in my nuts!”

* * *

Brigid had chalked it up to nothing more than a failed experiment; unfortunately for her, Sinclair saw it another way. It had only taken a week for word to reach her boss, resulting in the rather uncomfortable meeting between the two.

“You are letting me go?” For a woman being fired, her voice was almost surprisingly even. Brigid's eyes watched Sinclair as he paced back and forth behind his desk, embodying a man who did not truly want to follow through with the task he had assigned himself.

“Miss Tenenbaum, I know you're a smart woman and all that, but I can't have employees who are going around, _violating_ people like that. I have a company and an image to think about.” His accent was more drawn out when he was stressed, it seemed.

He didn't need to continue, really; she had gotten the message through all of his politeness.

In truth, Brigid had been suspecting he wanted to get rid of her as a researcher for a few months now, ever since he had come around asking about the amount of blood she had been taking from her volunteers, asking that she not refer to their 'welcomed guests' as specimens. He called himself a purveyor of science, but she saw through it; he was nothing more than another money hungry businessman.

It would be his loss, in the end. Standing from her chair, Brigid offered him as bright a smile as she could manage, one that made her lips sting, “I will retrieve my things, then. Thank you for... _opportunity_ , Sinclair.”

He reached his hand out, extending it across the desk as he looked down at her. “I'm sorry it did not work out, Miss Tenenbaum.”

She couldn't be bothered to shake his hand.

 


	15. 1950

1950

Neptune's Bounty, Rapture

 

Neptune's Bounty looked as if it could have been any other dock on the Surface, had it not been for the vast windows that glimpsed out into the ocean beyond. Curved overhead windows cast strange light and shadows into the Upper Wharf, accented by the bright neon signs of the many businesses. Down in the Lower Wharf, a submarine bay served as the entrance and exit for the fishermen who brought in the day's catch, the scent of fish intermingling with the thick, salty air. From one of the overhead speakers, a sea-shanty tune played quietly as background noise.

Walking the Lower Wharf, Brigid could feel her nose scrunching up, an involuntary reaction to the unpleasant scent of fresh and rotting fish, mixed with the sweat and musk of the men who worked along the docks.

The man who owned the fisheries apparently hired his own men, and they tended to be in Rapture's lower class. Fishermen, dock hands, and sailors-- rough men who evidently did not bathe as often as they should have, if the scent was anything to go by. Wandering through the open crates displaying the catch of the day ( and days past, she suspected by the flies buzzing about ), Brigid's mind wandered from her task of finding usable specimens, instead finding herself watching the men at work.

Most of the faces were unknown to her, and steered well away from a woman with as unfortunate a reputation as she had gained. As it turned out, word of a woman seducing a man to stab him with a syringe had travelled more quickly through Rapture than she had expected it to. Now most of the men avoided her, muttered insults under their breath as though she couldn't hear them. The exceptions were the owner of the Fisheries, a newer transplant to Rapture who didn't seem to much mind her wandering through where his men were supposed to be working, and a small number of the workers themselves.

One of the workers who didn't seem to mind her terribly was _Stiffy_.

She didn't know what his true name was, just the nickname the other men called him by. The man himself was a clumsy sort, too much bulk and not enough brain, whose hands had been crippled during the war. Paralyzed-- at least partially-- she recalled, by an injury to the nerves. She had never asked what had caused the injuries, nor did she much care to find out. What she cared about was how a man who had never been able to properly use his hands his entire stay in Rapture was now playing a game of catch with one of the other men on the docks.

“You, the one who is playing with the ball!”

Her statement caught the attention of the men, the smaller of which was quick to turn his attention back to the crates at his side, as if suddenly remembering that he had a task to do which prevented him from talking to the woman. Stiffy, however, just tossed the ball back and forth between his hands, chuckling, “Just a game a' catch, lady. Ain't no harm to it.”

“ _Ach_ , I am not interested in your catching,” Brigid waved a hand dismissively, crossing the docks with quick steps. “What I am taking interest in, is how it is that you are playing it. Your hands-- last I am seeing of you, they are paralyzed. How is it that you manage this?”

She had her suspicions, just from what she knew of the medical advances being made available in Rapture, and tacked on another question, “Is Suchong the one to be fixing this?”

“Suchong?” Stiffy scoffed, tossing the ball off into one of the crates full of fishing nets, “That Jap couldn't screw a light bulb in. Nah, this was the weirdest thing, lady. I don't think even a nut like you would believe me.”

“Tell me,” She urged again, resisting the urge to simply shake it out of the man. She had never heard of a cure for a paralysis such as his own-- such knowledge was a pure wonder.

“It was the damnedest thing. Me an' the boys, we were unloading the catch from the nets, see? It's easier to just scoop them out the net and drop them into the crates, instead a' dropping the nets and having them flopping around. An' inside the net was the _ugliest_ lookin' feller I've ever seen. Some kind of sea cucumber, we thought, so I grabbed the damn thing. Little bastard squirmed around, bit me right on the hand!” Despite the language, he was _chuckling_ at his own story, and Brigid was utterly perplexed. “Hand got right swollen, took about a night for the swelling to go down. But when it did...”

The man stopped then, and looked down at his hands with a mystified look on his face. “I could feel 'em coming back to life.”

“...And you are thinking this... _sea creature_ is to blame?”

“Not to blame, lady-- to thank!” She didn't bother to argue with him over syntax; his hand was certainly better than she had ever seen it. It was a medical miracle, something that could be used to a great benefit. If only she could study it-- and she doubted if the man would be willing to give up his hand for a bit of research.

“I do not suppose you could be...” Brigid hesitated, putting together her request in her head, “...finding another of these creatures?”

Stiffy broke into a smile, then, “I got the same damn one! Tossed the little bastard in a bucket full a' seawater. Didn't think much of it at the time, but once my hand got better, I thought I might be able t' sell it to one a' you science types. Don't suppose you'd be interested in taking it off my hands for a price?”

She was without a job, her money was dwindling, and yet-- when would she have this opportunity again? The creature would doubtless survive in a bucket for long, and once it was dead, who knew how many others would be out there? For now, she could work from one. Watch it, understand it. When the time came, dissect it. And perhaps, perhaps the answers she needed could be unlocked from this little creature.

“ _Very_ interested.”

* * *

The creature, it turned out, was not a sea cucumber as Stiffy had initially suspected, but a sea _slug_.

Still, Brigid could understand the misunderstanding; the creature was much larger than the sea slugs she had seen in tanks and in her books, and of a duller grey colour. On the outside of the creature were several bio-luminescent spots which seemed to glow a murky red colour. The slugs, Stiffy had explained as she counted out the money she owed him, were a variety that the deep sea fishermen saw mostly around what they referred to as 'the Abyss,' a large drop off outside of Rapture that the men tried to avoid. Something about odd happenings with their submersibles, one too many accidents. She hadn't heard much of his reasonings.

Looking through every marine life text she was able to get her hands on, Brigid was unable to identify the species of her mysterious new specimen. It seemed as if it may have been mutated, she guessed, judging by pure size alone-- but by _what_ was a mystery to her. The slug, meanwhile, seemed content to swim around the tank she had set up in her apartment, grazing along the rocks she had haphazardly dropped into the bottom.

Over time, she noticed something interesting about the slug's feeding habits. It would graze on the sponges and sea weed in the small tank, then regurgitate a small amount of a strange red fluid. At first, she had suspected it to be the creature's blood, and thought little of it-- until she realized that the substance shared the same bio-luminescence as it's host.

Could it be that this little creature held the key to an all new world of biology? The secret to unlocking one's genetic code, to fix what was wrong with mankind?

There was only one way to find out.

* * *

The slug had passed away after only a week and a half in her tank. While Brigid considered herself to be something of an expert when it came to the study of genetics, she was nowhere near a marine biologist, and had no experience in keeping pets alive for any amount of time.

It had been beneficial in the end; it made the trouble of choosing when to perform the dissection easier. Opening up the creature, Brigid compared it to the diagrams of other sea slugs from her books. Like other nudibranch, it showed itself to be hermaphroditic, containing the small ovatestis organ. Above this organ, however, was an unrecognizable gland, the source of the strange secretion, if she had to guess.

The gland was cut loose from the rest of the slug, cut open to reveal more of that strange bio-luminescent red substance. It had no notable scent, though the air was tainted by the salty fishiness of the creature, and Brigid cautiously swiped gloved fingertips through the liquid to hold it closer to her face. It was thin, not as thick as it had first appeared, and rubbing her thumb over the last of it on her fingers smeared it easily. Not blood, she decided then, as though the colouring of it had not been enough to give that much away.

The substance was transferred to a slide, to be taken with her to Sinclair's laboratory that night. She was determined to find out what exactly it meant; had this been what the slug's bite had injected into Stiffy, the substance that returned the use of his hands? If so, how?

One thing was certain: she was going to need more of those slugs.

 


	16. 1951

1951

Artemis Suites, Apollo Square

 

The men she was dealing with were, _unfortunately_ , not as stupid as she had first imagined them to be.

As it became more obvious that Brigid was willing to pay a ridiculous price for the slugs, the men began to ask for more from her for the squirming creatures. Claimed that they could get in trouble with their boss for going out of their way for a woman, instead of focusing on their work. In the end, much of her money had been eaten up the damned things, and she felt like she was no closer to understanding what it was that gave the slugs their miraculous abilities.

It didn't help that, just as she felt she was making some headway, Sinclair seemed to get wise to what she had been up to and changed the door codes for the laboratories. The damned fool; she couldn't even get a hold of him, never mind trying to reach Andrew Ryan. The Great Man, who had once seemed so certain her mind would be a great benefit to his city, now would never be available to see her. Even when she did manage to catch him in person, she would hardly get the opportunity to explain what she had found before he would brush her aside.

Just as they had on the Surface, it seemed that the men of Rapture were blind to the innovation before them. Especially when coming from a woman.

Approaching the tank that took up most of her den, Brigid watched with trepidation as the last two slugs that she had been able to afford lurked about their living space. Once these two were gone, she would have nothing left; she had been fortunate to find that the mysterious secretion they gave off could be removed through the gland without killing them, but she needed to be cautious in harvesting it.

In truth, she wasn't certain how long she sat there on her weathered couch, watching the two creatures crawl about the tank-- however long it was, she was startled out of what felt like a trance by a knock on the door, and it took her a moment to realize what exactly the sound actually was.

With the chain still in place, Brigid opened her door a crack to see a man standing there. He was a wall of a man, sturdy built and staring down at the small woman with dark eyes. It took a momentary staring contest before he seemed to accept that she was not going to be the first to speak, “...You Brigid Tannen-balm?”

She did not bother to correct his pronunciation; she'd learned long ago that expecting correction from Americans was pointless. “What is it you are wanting?”

At the confirmation, the man seemed to straighten up a bit, clearing his throat before he spoke again, “My boss is wanting a word with you 'bout your... work.” The man, who still had failed to identify himself, spoke with a thick Bronx accent. “Regarding a little business venture he's working on.”

Glancing back towards the tank across the room, Brigid exhaled a breath. She didn't particularly feel like speaking with anyone about her 'work' as of late, but if there was the potential for a job, she needed to take it seriously. “...Fine, yes. When, where is he wanting me?”

Something on the man's face seemed to twist with humour, but she couldn't understand why. Before she had any chance to comment on it, he had returned to a neutral look, “Tomorrow, 'round six. The penthouse in Mercury Suites. You wait downstairs, and I'll be there to let you in.”

Mercury Suites? Brigid was momentarily thrown; the apartments there were some of the most expensive in the city, more often reserved for Rapture's elite. She wasn't certain who would live there that actually had need of her work.

The man gave her no more instruction, already vanishing around the corner at the end of her hall. Shutting the door and ensuring the lock was still secured in place, Brigid realized that she would need to actually show up to this mysterious meeting at the Suites before she would find out who it was that was so interested in her work.

 

* * *

Mercury Suites, Olympus Heights

 

'Around six' ended up having Brigid arrive around quarter to six, and as she approached the large open area at the first floor of Mercury Suites, she was surprised to find that she was not the only one waiting for this strange meeting. Seated on a small bench opposite the lift to the penthouse was none other than Dr. Suchong. As she realized who it was waiting there, the man looked up, audibly groaning at the sight of her.

“Fontaine is calling for _you_ , too?” He muttered something under his breath, but whether it was due to the volume or his accent, she couldn't understand him. Instead of asking him to repeat himself, she simply echoed questioningly, “Fontaine?”

“Yes, Fontaine! Who you think lives here, stupid girl?” Suchong gestured widely towards the plaque above the penthouse lift, which clearly indicated 'F. FONTAINE.' The name was more than familiar to her; in all of her visits to the docks in Neptune's Bounty, Brigid had seen the owner of the fisheries a handful of times, spoken with him once or twice. She didn't know much about the man, aside from the fact that the workers clearly either respected or feared him.

What the man who owned Rapture's primary source of food income could possibly want from a pair of scientists was beyond her.

Sitting on the bench beside her colleague, she made some vague attempt at small talk, asking what Suchong had been working on under Sinclair. As it happened, he hadn't exactly been thrilled in working for Sinclair and Ryan, either; his funding had been inconsistent, and sharing the work space with the other people that Sinclair brought in-- fools who were more interested in how marketable a thing was than how well it actually worked-- was frustrating.

Suchong, for all that he mocked and clearly disliked her, was something of a kindred soul to Brigid. He may not have thought they had much in common-- he was a legitimate doctor, had multiple degrees and at least a decade of experience on her-- but she found something about him to be almost encouraging. Even if the man himself made her want to rip her hair out.

Their conversation tapered off shortly before the doors to the lift opened, revealing the same man who had come calling to Brigid the night before waiting for them.

"Boss'll see you now."

The pair of scientists stepped into the relatively small lift, Brigid fidgeting a bit as the doors shut and began the silent ascent. She was grateful for the doors opening, allowing them to step out into a long entryway. It seemed that Mr. Fontaine was not in need of any financial help-- the entry was larger than Brigid's own apartment, decorated by a large zen garden.

Trailing around the outside of the sand garden, Fontaine's man lead them inside the main apartment. The foyer was massive, tall ceilings decorated with golden tiles and windows that stretched the height of the ceilings. Ahead, a stuffed polar bear was posed as though to strike-- an intimidating sight to be welcomed by.

They were lead up the stairs and through the apartment in relative silence, aside from the odd comment from Suchong about architecture, or some artifact that Fontaine had on display. The long hall they passed through was decorated, Brigid noticed, by photographs and paintings of a city that seemed familiar, even if she had never seen it for herself; New York. At the end of the hall, they turned into a large sitting room. It was then that the man finally spoke again, "The boss is in here, waiting."

Sure enough, across the room from a pair, a man was lounging comfortably on one of a twin pair of sofas, a glass of wine perched in his hand. As he saw the arrival of his guests, the glass was set aside in exchange for standing to greet them. "I've got it from here, Reggie. Keep an eye on the door, would you? Wouldn't want anyone... wanderin' in here while I'm talking to these nice folks."

Reggie, the man who had escorted them up, gave a nod and a quiet affirmation before heading back out of the sitting room while their host crossed to meet them in the door.

Fontaine, Brigid decided, was a _handsome_ man. Perhaps not by the most popular standards, but she found him to be quite pleasing to the eye. He was a fair bit taller than her-- if she had to guess, she would say she came up to just about his chin, but as he was across the room from them now she couldn't say for certain. Dark eyes, _piercing_ eyes that she couldn't quite bring herself to focus on long enough to catch the colour of. He was bald, a factor which she had never considered much in a man, but she found that it suited him well, and drew attention to the rest of his face. He dressed sharply, in a well fitted black suit, and seemed to be making similar observations about his guests, if the ways his eyes roamed over them was any hint.

She suddenly felt very plain in her simple dress, the nicer of the few that she owned, and looked to her side to observe Suchong's own outfit. Even his plain suit, mostly hidden by a relatively clean lab coat, seemed more suited than her own. Suchong himself had regarded her outfit during their short chat, and had pointed out that she had even gone the extra step of putting on lipstick for a meeting-- which made her look, to him, like a 'painted whore.'

“I'm glad you both decided t' meet with me.” Fontaine spoke in a similarly thick accent to Reggie's; a native New Yorker, if she had to guess. It _would_ explain the photographs in the hall. “Come on in, make yourselves comfortable.”

Soon, they found themselves in the sitting room, Suchong and herself on one of the small sofas seated opposite Fontaine on the other. A glass of wine had been offered to each of them, and while Suchong had swiftly denied it, Brigid could not say no-- perhaps it would dull the nerves that were aching through her.

As if for show, Fontaine ran his finger along the rim of his own glass, the crystal singing out. Brigid resisted the urge to follow suite.

“Now, I've got a couple of ears 'round Ryan Industries, and I've been hearing you've been doing a bit of work for them. That right?”

Brigid tried not to scoff-- she hadn't worked for Ryan for the better part of a year, now, ever since the man had had her released from Sinclair's laboratories. Suchong, on the other hand, had been having relatively good luck in keeping his contracts. The man beside her, as if sharing her thought, answered, “Suchong work for _himself_... Sometimes, have contracts with Ryan, and Sinclair.”

Fontaine gave a slow nod, as though he were processing every minute detail he was given, before his gaze turned back to Brigid, and her gaze darted downward into her glass. “And Tenenbaum, you're a... what'd they call it, an... _independent contractor_? A free agent, of some kind?”

Free agent. She supposed that was a nicer way to say it than 'unemployed and rather desperate.' “...this is good description, yes.”

There was a chuckle, somewhere deep in his throat, but it never fully became a laugh. Perhaps knowing that if he seemed to be laughing at their misfortune, they wouldn't be likely to _stay_. Setting his glass down once again, Fontaine rested his elbows on his knees, leaning in closer to the pair. “I'm guessing you two are wonderin' why I had you brought up here. Well, I've got... Let's call it an _opportunity_ for you. Considering all I've heard about you two feeling... unsatisfied with your current positions.”

Suchong huffed out a sharp breath, “Unsatisfied. Ryan is saying, come to city, study what you want. But when we say, need more funding for experiments!, then he is nowhere to be found.”

The man opposite them gave a sympathetic nod, “Well, see, that's where I think I could... give you a hand. See, I'm thinking about diving head first into this scientific business. I've got the funding, all I need are a couple of researchers ready to do the work.”

When Fontaine seemed to realize that neither of the scientists were going to be quick to agree, he started in again, “Suchong, I've been hearing you're working on developing some new... new sort of tobacco plant, that right?”

“No, not tobacco. Suchong altering genetics of another plant to produce nicotine. Nicotine in sugar cane!” It was the most excitement Brigid had ever heard out of Suchong's voice, as he spoke of his current pet project. “Will be extracted like sugar. Make nicotine sweets, easier than smoking. No smell, no match needed.”

“ _Clever_... Smart man,” Fontaine chuckled, lounging back against his sofa again, “I've been doing some reading up on this whole... genetics business, some articles printed up on the Surface. Genetics can be used to, what, make all kinds of things. Switch a couple things around, and you've got-- I don't know, say, miniature cattle. The kind a' thing that would be easier to have down here in Rapture, a change up from the fish.” He waited until Suchong gave him a half nod, “From what I been hearing, you could switch the genes around inside a person. Could make them... different, right?”

When he said this, Brigid realized he was looking pointedly at her. Ignoring the sudden dry feeling in her throat, she cast her gaze down towards the floor, “What is it that you know of this?”

Was he laughing at her? She couldn't be certain, watching the way Fontaine so dismissively shrugged his shoulders, “Nothing, nothing... Just rumours. Like the ones sayin' you've been buying some kind of special sea slug off my boys down on the docks. They're saying you've bought at least ten of them...”

She should have known the men would speak to their boss about such an odd behaviour. Having someone, anyone express interest in her project, she couldn't quite seem to help herself from speaking up about it, “I would buy more, if I could. These slugs... they are no ordinary sea slug! They are... living miracles. Their genes could hold the key to unlocking... _Ach_ , but when I am trying to speak to Ryan about this, he is not listening to me. Brushes me aside, like I am _child_.”

“You don't say?” Brigid stopped abruptly at Fontaine's words, and pulled a hand up to her mouth to absently chew at the corner of one fingernail as he continued to observe her, “You think you onto some sort of breakthrough?”

Her gaze darted towards her colleague sitting beside her, who offered no assistance or opinions. “Perhaps.”

Fontaine smiled, then, and Brigid was rather flustered to find that the expression was one that made heat rise in her face. She prayed that it didn't show on her pale complexion. “Then, I'm interested. You've got something I want to invest in-- I'll pay you for a stake, and Ryan? He doesn't need to be none the wiser for it. When you're ready, you can come and work for me. Both of you.”

She was _far_ too thankful to have his attention turn back to both of them, not focused so intently on herself. “I've got a few things in mind. Big things. Might even be trying to get another scientist on board, this Alexander kid. For now, I figure you two can work in Suchong's lab space, I'll pay your salary... In time, find us a space of our own. Thing is-- for now, I don't want Ryan to know 'bout any of this. We're gonna keep it real quiet, 'til we're ready to take it all public.”

Brigid gave a slow nod, putting the pieces together; they use Suchong's lab space, which he had been given through Sinclair ( and therefore, Ryan ) without him being any the wiser. It was a little shifty, but honestly, what did she owe to _either_ man?

Before she could outright agree with it, Suchong spoke up sharply, causing her to wince from the volume. “Money is good, yes! But there is one more thing Suchong needs. Suchong and Tenenbaum _both_.” It seemed he was ready to breech into the questionable topic, and Brigid took a deep breath as he began, “We both talk about altering genetics in people. Is very hard thing to do without humans! What Suchong need-- subjects! Test subjects!”

After all, it was difficult to do anything with the genetics of man without a man to experiment upon.

“Test subjects.” Fontaine's voice did not reflect the surprise or disgust that Brigid had expected. Instead, he simply seemed... curious. After a moment of contemplation, he gestured for Suchong to expand his thought.

“Young humans. Children, their cells have much more... possibility. Easier to manipulate. But children! People too protective of children. Foul, _vile_ creatures...”

Retrieving her glass, Brigid took a slow sip of the sweet wine, watching over the rim as Fontaine quirked a brow at Suchong's statement. “Not a fan of kids, I take it?”

This, unfortunately, started Suchong in on a story of his childhood. Growing up as the son of a servant, surrounded by a rich man's spoiled children. His hatred had started from a young age, being mistreated-- in his eyes, children were little more than _animals_. She, however, had a little more sympathy towards them.

Then again, the youngest in the room by at least a decade, Brigid didn't doubt if both men thought she was barely more than a child herself.

“You were pretty young when you started working as a scientist, weren't you, Miss Tenenbaum?” Fontaine's voice broke through her thoughts, and her eyes lifted to his briefly, giving a short nod in response. “How'd you get into that?”

“I was at German prison camp, only of sixteen years old, when I realize I have love for science. German doctor, he make experiment. Sometime, he make scientific error. I tell him of this error, and this make him angry. But then he asks, "How can a child know such a thing?" I tell him, "Sometimes, I just know." He screams at me, "Then why tell me?" "Well," I said, "if you're going to do such things, at least you should do them properly.”

She could feel the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips, but it never fully formed. Suchong, beside her, scoffed at the story, muttering under his breath that she always told that same story. Still, Fontaine seemed to be watching her, thinking over his next statement, and it slowly came to her that she had never spoken so many words to him. To anyone in Rapture, really. The last of her wine was quickly finished, the glass carefully set aside.

At last, Fontaine seemed to be contented with his own thoughts, “I don't know 'bout _children_ , doc. Those kinds of things tend to... get attention. What I can do for you, is get you a couple of grown men-- maybe a couple who've run afoul of some a' the rules in this joint. One or two guys go missing from Detention, no one's going to bat an eye. They escaped, an' drowned trying to get out of the city.”

Suchong gave a quick nod, seemingly appeased for the moment.

“So,” Fontaine toyed with his wineglass, which had sat empty for the better part of their conversation, setting it down to retrieve a new bottle from a bucket of ice off to the side of the room, “Suppose you could find a way to... _control_ a person's genes. Is it true what I been hearing-- genes can control how we age, what we got to work with?”

Brigid, sure of herself, was quick to answer with an affirmative; Suchong in her ear, however, answered to the contrary. Fontaine did little more than quirk a brow at the pair, seemingly unsure of how to respond.

“Genes, they are _everything_ ,” her voice was unwavering in her resolution, even as her colleague scoffed openly.

“This Tenenbaum theory! Stupid theory!”

If he was aware of the animosity between the pair, Fontaine didn't show it. “But I mean, these theories... This idea that you could help a man stay young. Change his body for the better: stronger arms, more hair, a longer--” He made a vague gesture, and Brigid felt her brows knit together. “--You know. I mean, just think: if you could sell this. Sell a man a product that could make him different, _better_. More talents, more... _abilities_...”

It was not a new theory, and not unlike the sort of experiments she had become so fascinated with during the war.

“ _Der Übermensch_.” Brigid did not wait for either man to ask for an explanation, “There was a theory, written by Nietzsche, one my mentor spoke of often. This idea of... enhancing a man's natural abilities, unlocking them, to create the Übermensch-- a super man... The Germans, they are unsuccessful. With time, with this new discovery... risky, yes, but _possible_. But it will take much time. And much experimentation.”

Fontaine seemed contented with her answer, judging from the way he had relaxed back into his seat, watching the pair with a faint smile on his expression. Sitting straighter, he broke into a warmer, more open smile, the sort that made Brigid drop her gaze, “Time is one thing we got in spades, down here. I'll draft up a couple of contracts, just between us three, get you your first research payments as soon as tomorrow...”

He stood from the sofa, somehow signifying through the motion alone that the meeting was drawing to a close. Brigid stood gratefully, side-stepping away from the sofa and the table a bit faster than Suchong. Standing closer to Fontaine than she had yet, she noticed she could smell his cologne; a scent that she couldn't seem to place her finger on, it lacked the sharp alcohol scent she was used to from the cheaper brands that usually filled her senses.

“I'll get you both what you need, and in exchange, all I ask for now is that we keep this quiet. Ryan may believe in free commerce and all that jazz, but... the man's got eyes everywhere.” Fontaine muttered the last of his comment as he guided the pair back to the entrance to the sitting room, where Reggie was waiting to take them back downstairs. “We'll be in touch.”

* * *

A proper lab, _finally_.

Days after the meeting, Brigid still felt as if she were reeling. Even after her tanks had been moved into Suchong's laboratories and new slugs provided to her, she felt as if it had to be some sort of elaborate trick. Needless to say, it was not in her nature to be trusting, given her past.

And yet, it seemed that Fontaine was living up to every promise he had made. Money for their experiments had been provided; more slugs had been delivered for Brigid, and while she didn't know the status of Suchong's human test subjects, she felt it unnecessary to ask the man so early on. He was hesitant enough to have her in his work space.

For the time being, they both did their damnedest to stay out of the others way.

But finally, _finally_ , after months of working on her own, she would have resources again, the ability to really study the fully extent of what this little sea slug was capable of. Soon, she would be able to prove to Rapture why she was there, what she had to offer Utopia.

 


	17. 1953

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being split into two, because... 1953 was a busy year for Rapture and I cut a bit of development out of the middle.
> 
> Minor body horror triggers in this chunk.

1953

Fontaine Futuristics, Rapture

Fontaine seemed to be making an effort to stay within Brigid's stride, while Suchong walked a few feet ahead of the pair. The elder scientist was muttering under his breath, and even if he had been close enough that Brigid could make out his words, she doubted if she would have understood the language. She'd realized on the day she saw his notes all written in codes and ciphers that he was a paranoid fool, and not stupid enough to speak poorly of someone where they could hear him.

At her side, Fontaine walked with an air of confidence; hands tucked in his pockets, head high. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she continued to be quite taken with the way that he moved and held himself.

Disgusting, to be so taken with anyone. She had tried to brush the feelings aside, but they were persistent now.

As if feeling her looking at him, Fontaine glanced her way, and Brigid flustered before looking down towards the floor, "So, what was it you two wanted to show me? Some new development?"

"She want to show! Suchong want no part of this," spat the man ahead of them, who turned off into one of the side rooms of the Futuristics building. Even when she was on the verge of changing everything, he was so determined to be disgusted by her, to hate her.

For once, Brigid did not let it bother her; instead, lifting her head confidently, she exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, “ _Herr_ Fontaine, everything that I am working for, I feel it is... coming together. Trust me, you will see.”

Following Suchong's path into the innermost laboratory, she continued her walk with an unfamiliar confidence in her steps.

In the centre of the room lay an unconscious man on a gurney; one William 'Willy' Brougham. What he had done and who he was before winding up on her table was unknown to Brigid, and in truth, she had no interest in knowing. Not so much because it would make the things she had done to him more difficult; it was simply that there was no need for her to understand what made a man like this tick, no room for that information in her head.

Fontaine quirked a brow as he entered the room, but did not immediately speak up. He often seemed to be uncomfortable in the laboratories, but refused to outright show it. She paid him little mind as she set about preparing the syringe on her work table for this little demonstration.

“Tenenbaum want to tell you she fix everything with genetics. Genetics good, but Suchong interested in bigger science! Not control of genes; control of mind! Possible, through conditioning of synapses. When you control mind, you control everything.”

What Suchong spoke of was nothing new to Brigid; the same sort of psychological experiments had been performed before, but without any notable success. Unfortunately, it seemed she was losing Fontaine to this inane discussion, judging from the way he cocked his head towards the smaller man.

“Conditioning, huh? Now that, that is something we could find a use for...”

Brigid cleared her throat sharply, the sound abrupt enough to get the attention of the men in the room. Setting the syringe down on the silver tray beside the table, she tugged down the sheet covering Willy to expose a nasty wound on his midsection. The cut was uneven, puckered and suppurating. Brigid had haphazardly closed the wound with tape, but pus still oozed out, intermingling with the remnants of dried blood and fresh plasma.

“This man, Brougham, he is attempting to steal from the fisheries with a large fishing hook. Ryan's men, they are catching him, cut him with his own hook as punishment.” Brigid looked up to see Fontaine watching her more than the wound. Lifting the syringe, she tapped the glass side to indicate the glowing red fluid inside, “Now, this material is what I am extracting from the slugs. We are purifying it, preparing it. This material... it is made of special stem cells; unstable, but highly adaptable. Now, watch the wound...”

She gave no other warning before plunging the needle into the flesh above the open wound. Brougham arched suddenly off the table, his nerves reacting to the sudden sharp pain, but did not wake from the sleep-like state he was in. Just as quickly, he dropped back onto the table, and silence fell.

Suchong started to laugh.

“There goes your great theory, Tenenbaum!” Brigid did not so much as raise her eyes from the wound, despite seeing the shift in posture of Fontaine on the other side of the gurney, no doubt wondering what _exactly_ he was paying her for.

Before he could question her, and before Suchong could say another word, the skin around the wound seemed to shudder; reddening, the flesh inside of the wound began to knit itself back together, rebuilding what had been lost, sealing itself shut. After a minute, there was nothing to show for the wound but a healed scar.

“This serum-- it destroys damaged cells, replaces them with new ones transferred by plasmids-- unstable genetic material. Now, these new stem cells can be manipulated, changing the genes. We can make them anything we need them to be! If it is being able to heal a body instantly, what else can we make it do? Transform a man into anything, anyone! The possibilities are endless!”

Her voice had become more excitable, breathless in the face of her success. Fontaine, as well, seemed impressed-- but Suchong only watched critically. “And what about this, Tenenbaum? Lesions, on his face!”

“Hardly visible,” She waved the comment off simply; she doubted if anyone was so vain as to pass up the chance for instantaneous healing due to some minor skin lesions, “Only minor side effects--”

“There could be much more!” Suchong was quick to interrupt, become impassioned only when he had the opportunity to point out her flaws and failures. Your first subject, the man with the bad hands-- this man now acts strangely. And he is having strange marks on his arms! Like cancer growths! _Uncontrolled_ cell growth!”

Fontaine seemed unperturbed, “So, these stem cell things... this _serum_? You can use it to... change things up in a man, like we talked about? Give him special abilities?” She gave him a soundless nod, returning her attention to Brougham as he continued, “Growin' hair, a bigger package, more muscles... bigger tits for the ladies, bigger brains for those blue collar folks interested in movin' up...”

“All of this will be possible!”

Suchong, crossing away from the table, scoffed at the conversation, “You do not tell him how your _serum_ needs to be energized!”

_Damn him_. Feeling the need to poke a hole in every little thing she did, every advancement she made. Keeping a cool exterior, Brigid pulled a stethoscope off of the tray beside the gurney, listening to Brougham's heart. His heart rate was quick, the serum acting as an adrenaline boost of sorts, but nothing to worry about. “Not a concern. I am having design ready for the energizer. Real problem is...”

She set the stethoscope aside again, wringing her hands together a moment. “The sea slugs-- they are only capable of producing so much of these serums. I am believing them to be... parasites. Fishermen are finding them on sharks, other large fish, even whales closer to the surface. On their own, they are not producing enough. I have idea about this, but...”

Fontaine made a brief 'go on' sort of motion. “If we are, perhaps, finding way to attach them to a person... This person could become host for the slug, help it to produce the serum. Then, we would be having more for experiments.”

Her employer had been willing enough to listen to their requests for human test subjects; she had to hope that this wouldn't be one step too far. Indeed, he seemed to be rather pensive for once, a slow nod of his head being the only outward sign of him taking any of it in.

“So, this serum,” He began slowly, peering down at Brougham's healed wound, daring to nudge at it with his finger, “You think if you got enough slugs, maybe a couple people to act as, what did you call it, hosts? You think you could mass-produce this stuff?”

Brigid glanced in his direction and gave a hesitant nod, “It will take much time, much experimentation still-- but yes, I believe we could.”

Her colleague barely gave Fontaine time to smirk, “ _But!_ Suchong believes Tenenbaum serum could become addictive! She does not understand people-- In my studies of human beings, have learned that anything that makes easy changes can become addictive. People very weak this way! Man is very sad, takes drink of liquor-- feels better! Next time he is sad, he has more, and more, until he is becoming addicted to the liquor! Same thing with opium. Maybe, would become the same with her serum.”

Brigid scoffed, but he continued on, “Organisms are developing need for things like this. Even the man Tenenbaum is finding on the docks, man with miracle healed hands? I observe him now, and he is acting very differently. Much more angry-- sometimes he is acting... like he is, what you are calling 'high!'”

She waited for it now; surely, Suchong had said enough. Fontaine would withdraw from her project, and she would be at square one all over again. Addiction, it was too serious for a business man to get involved with, especially with the backing of a serious scientist such as Dr. Suchong.

She waited.  
It didn't come.

Instead, Fontaine was smiling.

“Keep on this... I got a feeling, it's going to be worth your while-- all of our whiles! Sure, it'll need a bit of branding, can't keep on callin' it 'serum,' and I ain't thinking people want to know it comes out of a slug, but that's my problem. For now, you two work on getting it all together.”

* * *

 

Fontaine Futuristics, Rapture

“You the biblical sort? Before Rapture, I mean.” Fontaine's voice drew Brigid out of her thoughts; lifting her head from the microscope on her desk, she took a brief pause to rub at her eyes before turning to face him, confusion no doubt on her face. When he didn't get an immediate answer, the businessman continued, “I was brainstorming, trying to think of how to market your serum, what t' call it.”

“And you decided something... _biblical_?” It was very much in keeping with Fontaine's style. She had come to realize that if there was a subtle way for the man to rebel against Andrew Ryan, he would take it. Naming his product after something banned by the Great Man himself seemed par for the course.

Her employer crossed the room easily, moving to adjust the radio sitting on one of the unused desks off to the side of the room. He toyed with the dials, putting off his answer until he seemed content with the music playing, Bing Crosby crooning softly away about the Great Depression.

“We're gonna call the serum ADAM-- after Adam, y'know, the first man? ' _Because from Adam came life for all mankind_.'” He almost sounded as if he were telling a joke, the way he said it, “The energizer, this partner to ADAM, we're gonna call EVE. After all, what _energized_ Adam more than the first woman?”

He chuckled; Brigid failed to find the humour in it, and only managed to hold a smile briefly before returning her attention to the microscope. She watched as the serum, this newly named ADAM, replaced the cells from a tumour ridden piece of muscle she had prepared earlier that afternoon. In a matter of minutes, the cells were healed; stranger, but healed.

Before she could pull her face away from the microscope to jot down any additional notes, she felt hands on her shoulders and went rigid. She hated the way he did that-- moved so silently, always feeling the need to lay a hand on her arm, her shoulders. _Just encouragement_ , he had mentioned once, when she had commented on it. She did not feel particularly encouraged.

One hand lifted off her shoulder, twisting a piece of hair which had fallen haphazardly out of the messy bun she had her hair in around his finger. The sensation of it sent shivers up her spine, though she tried her damnedest to keep them hidden.

“You always wear your hair up.” Not a question, a statement, and uttered much closer to her ear than she would have liked. Pulling away from the microscope, Brigid pulled her head away from his hand, thankful to find that Fontaine easily released her hair. “Is not safe, to be wearing hair down in laboratory.”

“That's not what I mean, kid.” She shut her eyes. ' _Kid_.' She was so tired of it; Sinclair had been bad enough, but from Fontaine? “Every time I see you outside a' the lab, you still got your hair up. Come t' think of it, I don't think I've seen you much out of a lab coat, neither.”

Pushing out of her chair, Brigid crossed over to where the radio sang away quietly, shutting it off with one quick turn of the dial. Fontaine had a way of getting under her skin so easily, and he acted as if he did it purely for hobby. What was his purpose in all of this? Trying to make his employees so uncomfortable that they were not able to do their jobs? She could feel his eyes watching her still, as she crossed over to a cabinet on the far wall, yanking the drawer open with little concern for grace.

“Damn shame, too. You're a pretty little thing under all that.”

“Do not mock me, Fontaine.”

He laughed, a low sound that seemed to rumble in his chest before escaping past his lips, and for a split second Brigid felt confident that he would confess as to his intentions. ' _Just like to see you squirm_ ,' something of that sort. She had heard it before; _your reactions are too fun, I can't help myself_.

“Brig',” The nickname fell easily off his lips, startling her, making her wonder where this sudden familiarity had come from, “If I was mockin' you, I wouldn't be calling you pretty. Trust me, I know how to set a woman off-- and this? This ain't it. Did you ever stop an' consider--”

His gaze met the clock on the wall, and he cursed under his breath.

“Forgot about Peach... Looks like we'll have to continue this talk another time.” She wished they wouldn't, but didn't say as much. As Fontaine sauntered towards the door, he stopped to lean a hip against the door frame, watching Brigid a moment. “...Get dressed up tonight, Brig'. I'm taking you out.”

“Excuse me?” He hadn't exactly asked her, but she doubted it he was giving her any choice in the matter.

“You need to let your hair down. Figuratively, not just literally.” There it was, that smirk of his that made her stomach feel as if it would leap into her throat. _Damn him!_ “I'll swing by your place, pick you up at six.”

There was no room for objection as he let himself out into the hall without another word, the heavy doors falling shut behind him, leaving Brigid alone with her specimens and confusion.

Kashmir Restaurant, Rapture Welcome Centre

“People are looking at us, Fontaine.”

Brigid's voice barely registered above a hiss, an uncomfortable noise to match an uncomfortable situation. Her gaze was locked on the table, and yet she was _certain_ of it-- she could feel the eyes of others in the upscale restaurant watching them.

“Let 'em look, Tenenbaum. It ain't gonna do us no harm for them to see you out celebrating.” He made a mocking gesture with his wine glass, a casual smile plastered across his face. “Don't tell me you're worried about your... _reputation_.”

Her gaze lifted, then, to peer into Fontaine's face, trying to determine exactly what it was that he meant by such a statement. Seeing her expression, the man seemed to take great amusement in it, leaning back in their booth to shake his head at her. If she thought the man was capable of such a thing, she might have thought it was _pity_ ; but she had seen the same man speaking to his men. She knew better than to think that Frank Fontaine pitied anyone.

His men were terrified by him; he was like the Germans, that way. Efficient. Once he had respected this, but now, that he had turned that mocking, playboy expression on her, she wanted to slap it clean off of his face.

“You know what they call you, Brig?” He showed no shame for the nickname he had given her, and despite her quiet protestations in the lab, it seemed to have stuck. “When they ain't callin' you a kraut? They call you Frigid Tenenbaum.”

He chuckled at this joke, whereas her expression simply fell. No, she may not have been the warmest person of Rapture, but to know that people spoke about her so cruelly, so openly? Quickly, she brushed the feelings of embarrassment aside, hardened herself, “I do not care what people are wanting to call me. If they think I am _frigid_ , perhaps this will have them giving me space for my work.”

Before her employer had a chance to give some quick retort, the waiter sauntered up, preparing to take their order. Fontaine flashed him that million dollar smile-- a phrase she'd learned from him, one he often used-- before passing the menus over, “A bottle of the house white, two of the dinner specials.”

The waiter gave a mute nod, tucking the menus under his arm as he headed off toward the kitchen, and Brigid couldn't help but quirk a brow at having Fontaine order for her, “Are you going to tell me what it is I am having for dinner?”

Another smile, though there was a dangerous element to it, one she was becoming more and more acquainted with, “And where's the fun in that, doctor? Come on, don't you trust me?”

Something about that look told her she shouldn't.

“No.” Her honesty earned her a bark of laughter from Fontaine, who seemed more impressed by her denial than he would have been if she had simply rolled over for him. He was often like that; enjoying seeing someone with a bit of bark to them. He said of the women who fawned over him in Rapture that they were too simple. He had a thing for smarter women.

When he said that, Brigid could remember the way her face had felt too hot. The bastard undoubtedly knew it, too. He seemed to enjoy making fun of her, watching her squirm.

“I promise you, Brigid, you're going to like it. It's my treat, after all.” Fontaine gave a brief wave to the sommelier who appeared with their bottle, dismissing him to pour their wine himself. “Think of it as a reward for a job well done.”

“So, you are treating Suchong to such a dinner, as well, then?” It wasn't like her to be so cheeky, certainly not before a glass of wine; she wasn't entirely certain what had brought it out of her this evening, aside from Fontaine's own incessant teasing. “I am not sure how he will feel about wine and candlelight, _Herr_ Fontaine.”

“ _Frank_ ,” came the low chuckle of reply, and Brigid felt her brows knit together again.

“I was not trying to be.”

He laughed again-- more openly than the soft chuckles and smirks he so often offered-- and she couldn't help but flinch at the suddenness of it, the way the couple at the table across from them briefly glanced their way before returning to their whispers. “No, Brig'. I meant, you don't gotta call me Mr. Fontaine all the time. It's just us-- don't go thinkin' of me as your employer tonight. Just... call me Frank.”

Her nose scrunched up on it's own accord, reflecting her indecision. Calling him by his first name felt... too personal. Something she was not yet ready to commit herself to.

“As fer Suchong... alright, y' got me there.” Lifting his own glass, took a slow sip of his wine before humming out a response, “I just figured if I called it a date, _doctor_ , you never would have agreed to come.”

Her eyes lifted from her glass only briefly to his own, before she dropped her gaze back to the drink and took a long, slow sip of her own. She let the flavour sit on her tongue a moment-- some sort of acid mixed with some aroma she couldn't place, and something distinctly floral-- before swallowing. The acid burned at her throat, but she spoke immediately despite, “No, I do not think I would have.”

Again, Fontaine was smiling, and it occurred to her suddenly that he almost resembled the sharks that would occasionally swim by the glass tunnels out towards Hephaestus. Too wide, too sharp. It reminded her of a song she had more than once heard her father singing during her childhood: _Und der Haifisch, der hat Zähne, Und die trägt er im Gesicht..._

Damn. She'd have that song running through her head for the rest of the night, now.

“See, that's what I find so interesting about you, Brigid.” He did not say _interesting_ in a way that made her feel any more complimented than she had before, “You damn near got it all in Rapture-- free place t' do your work, a pretty good place t' live. But that's where it ends for you, ain't it? You never take a show in down in Fort Frolic, never go out for dancin' or spending time with people. You work, you go home. Like I said, y' never let your hair down.”

He made a gesture then to her general appearance; despite wearing a nicer dress for the evening, it wasn't the sort of thing the other women in the restaurant were wearing. The woman across from them for a black velvet dress that ended at her knees, giving way to ruffles of a sheer material that seemed to shimmer in the light. Two over, a woman in a bright red dress flipped her blonde curls over her shoulder with a high – pitched laugh. Those were the sorts of women who excelled in Rapture.

Looking down to her own appearance, to the dull blue dress that flared in awkward places, the rough material that kept her warm despite not being necessarily fashionable, she realized she stuck out. Her hair was still messily up against her head, not tightly coiffed and decorated with glimmering pins like the others. Messy, loose, and held in place with little more than elastics. Brigid shut her eyes tightly, trying to put the realization of how terrible she must have looked aside.

“Do you always make it a habit to insult your dates?”

“I didn't _insult_ you, doll.” Was _doll_ better or worse than _kid_? She hadn't decided yet. “Just because you chose to take it that way, don't mean that's how I intended it. I saw the way you looked around this joint-- I didn't say you looked _bad_ , Brigid. Just that... you need to learn to relax. That's why I asked you out here tonight. I wanted to see you... out of your element.”

At was at that point that their waiter returned, setting down the two plates of food they had ordered. The meal was an elegant one, as expected from the Kashmir; a salty, buttery scent wafted over her, steam wafting upward invitingly, even as the pieces of the creature in the centre of her plate gave Brigid pause.

“What's the matter, Brig? Never seen a lobster before?”

_...And all that have not fins and scales in the seas shall be a detestable thing unto you; ye shall not eat of their flesh, and their carcasses ye shall have in detestation._ The words came to her head as an unwanted echo, from a voice she had not heard in decades and wished to never hear again. While Brigid had not hesitated to give up her religion to come to Rapture, some things she had found more difficult to quit than others.

Staring down at the red crustacean on her plate, she was struck by the realization that not only had she never eaten one before, but she wasn't even certain where to begin with the thing. “Seen, yes. Eaten, no...” She confessed at last, watching the lobster as if waiting for the thing to burst back to life. At her words, Fontaine cocked his head to one side in what she assumed was an attempt to look sympathetic-- but the wicked gleam was not lost from his eyes.

“Well, the claws are the best, I'd start with them...” Brigid resisted the childish urge to poke at her food as Fontaine instructed her, proceeding to rather easily pull the claw meat free from within the shell. It shouldn't have bothered her so much, she lectured somewhere in her soul. The cracking of the shell was not nearly as disturbing as the cracking of broken bones. Peeling meat out from inside of a shell was no different than sheering off the fur.

So why was she hesitating?

To Hell with it. The thought suddenly rang clear in her head, and without so much as another thought alongside it, Brigid took one of the claws from her plate-- thankful that they had already been separated from the body-- and pulled the meat out of the shell. It did not come as easily as it had for Fontaine, making a bit of a mess on her hands, but she tried to ignore it as best she could.

She dipped it into the small dish of butter on her plate and, well aware of Fontaine watching her like a hawk, drew the claw meat into her mouth. The taste was, as she found with much of the higher end food she had been fortunate to try, _lacking_. The greasy sensation of butter and garlic was left on her tongue even after the swallowed the meat. The bite had been softer than she expected, not the rubber that she so disturbingly anticipated.

To say that she didn't quite see the appeal was putting it lightly.

“Huh,” Fontaine finally chuckled, dabbing his fingers off on the cloth napkin beside his plate, “An' here I was, thinking Jewish girls didn't eat shellfish.”

“They do not.”

Fontaine smiled that wicked, sharp smile again.

She didn't ask how he had found out about her background; if there was one thing she had learned about Fontaine, it was that the man had a way with people. Whether it was manipulating someone into revealing their secrets to him themselves or just sweet talking his way into the records room, he would find a way to get his hands on the things he wanted.

It would have annoyed her, had it not been so admirable.

The two continued to eat in relative silence, Brigid trying to find any difference between the tastes of the claw and tail meat of the creature and finding none. Conversations jumped between lighter topics; a discussion of the couple two tables down ( 'I wonder if his wife knows he's cheatin' on her' ), the sorts of food that they missed from the Surface. By the time the dinner was finished, Brigid had also finished two glasses of wine, and Fontaine was quick to insist they have dessert as well.

Despite not being one for sweets, she found herself agreeing to stay. As they sat waiting, enjoying the last of their wine, Brigid found her gaze wandering around the restaurant. Despite the name, the decor was decidedly not Indian, flowing well with the art deco style of the rest of Rapture. Music from the party hall downstairs floated warmly up into the restaurant, a tune that she did not know but found pleasant enough. At last, her gaze settled on the large statue at the far end of the restaurant, a familiar figure from her mythology texts in childhood. Grecian, if she remembered correctly.

“Strange choice, for statue on bottom of the ocean, yes?” Brigid returned her gaze briefly to Fontaine, and she saw his eyes dart towards the statue as well. “Are you familiar with the myth?”

“Never really been one for stories, kid.”

It was a narrow decision to not kick him in the shin under the table. Lifting her glass, she drained the last of the wine from the bottom before starting in on the story behind the statue that she found so odd, “I have seen this image in a few places in Rapture; I think Ryan must be interested in mythology. He was a Titan-- Atlas. He was punished... forever to hold the Earth on his shoulders. But I am finding it odd, to see him doing so from the bottom of the ocean.”

Fontaine watched the statue closely a moment, before his eyes narrowed suddenly, “Suppose Ryan does think Rapture is the entire world, though, don't he?”

And there he was: the dangerous Fontaine that seemed to rear his head every so often. Beneath the business man's outer appearance, all those smiles and gentle laughs, there it was. Burning, boiling anger, powerful and _dangerous_.

She wished more than anything her body was not so attracted to that part of him.

Thankfully, when he caught her watching him so closely, Fontaine's expression softened again, and he seemed to chuckle silently, “There I go, talkin' business when I said this was supposed to be a night off. Guess people like us are always working away in their minds, eh, Brig?”

_People like us._ Her stomach churned uncomfortably, the heat returning to her face once again.

She was saved from any more awkward commentary by a plate being placed down between the two of them, the dessert being an easily shareable portion. The waiter muttered briefly what it was, the explanation lost on Brigid as they hurried off to their next table; Fontaine did a better job of it, saying the Italian dessert terminology slow enough that she could actually follow.

The dessert was cakey, crunchy, elegant. She confessed around a bite that she had never tried Italian desserts. He didn't seem upset to see her eating so enthusiastically, nudging the plate closer to her side of the table subtly.

He took her home after the meal, by way of bathysphere. She had grown to not hate the mode of transportation so much when they were not overcrowded with five or six people. Two could sit quite comfortably, Fontaine giving her plenty of space to sit without their knees touching.

After the bathysphere, it was only a short walk to her apartment in Artemis Suites, where she stopped outside the door to face him again. In truth, Brigid was surprised at just how good an evening she had actually had with her employer-- though she wasn't entirely certain how to put that into words.

“Fontaine--”

“Frank.”

“ _Frank_ ,” She corrected, his name still feeling awkward on her tongue, before continuing, “...You are right, what you said during dinner? I am not... spending much time outside of my work. I work-- I eat, sleep, _breathe_ my work. Of this, I have no shame. But... thank you. For trying to change my perception, for... trying to give me one nice evening out.”

He was watching her closely, and Brigid could not quite decipher the expression on his face; confusion, perhaps? Not anger, there wasn't that fire burning in his eyes... but she could not decide exactly how he felt in regards to her statement. At last, he chuckled low in his throat, shaking his head slowly at her.

“Trust me Brig. It won't be the last.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nickname mentioned by Frank of 'Frigid Tenenbaum' is from Blindfold by conceptofzero. I read that fic around a year and a half ago and utterly locked onto the idea of people calling Brigid that behind her back, so full credit goes to them for that idea!


	18. 1953

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut. This chapter is smut. Pure smut.
> 
> There is some character development but honestly if you don't want to read Frank banging Brigid this chapter is entirely skippable.

1953

Fontaine's Penthouse  
Mercury Suites, Olympus Heights

How had she gotten into this? Brigid couldn't help but question her decisions as she stared at her reflection in the full length mirror in Fontaine's en suite; the silken negligee was not nearly as alluring as some of the lingerie she had seen lining the shops in Fort Frolic, but it was sheer, and snug where it should have been, showing off the few curves that she had.

Her lipstick was reapplied, a dark, sticky, blood – red colour that smeared too easily to be sensible, but fit the image she had in her mind for what a 'sensual woman' should look like. She was barefoot, the tiles of the bathroom cold beneath her, and she wiggled her toes in response the sudden realization of goosebumps running up her legs. She was thankful she had shaved the hair off her legs, and other, more intimate places, before coming to Mercury Suites.

Looking back at her reflection, Brigid felt like an utter fool. The butt of yet another joke, she was certain-- mentally preparing herself for Fontaine's laughter when she would eventually unlock the door and reveal herself. Covering her face, she took a seat on the edge of his tub, prolonging the inevitable.

A knock came from the door, Fontaine's voice following shortly after,“C'mon, Brigid, you get lost in there or something?”

The porcelain was cold beneath her thighs, and she focused on that sensation while her gaze wandered to the door, to the shadow that showed Fontaine waiting on the other side. She could almost fool herself into believing there was sincere concern in his voice-- but she had done nothing to earn such a response, and so she simply called out, “I will only be a minute longer.”

He seemed contended, the shadow retreating into the bedroom beyond. Brigid turned sideways, observing herself from another angle, as if it would suddenly reveal some attractive feature. She found none, nothing but the awkward angles and edges that she was used to seeing. Scars lined her legs, pale white and blending into the unhealthy pallor of her skin, barely visible beneath her stockings but painfully exposed now.

Fingers touched slowly over the exposed tattoo on her forearm, which against pale skin and silk stood out like a stain. The first time she had been exposed in this way before a man had been only shortly after the war-- a soldier, she remembered faintly, who she had met in a pub somewhere. The event was immemorable, the loss of her virginity not the romantic act that the schoolgirls she had grown up around believed it would have been. It had been tension, discomfort, and then a strange, hollow sensation afterwards.

Sex did not frighten her, it disgusted her-- and yet, since she had come to Rapture, to live among those who placed their seduction and desire on the forefront of their personalities, of their society, she had found herself... shifting. Fontaine was a man who was created of power; something about that, over time, had made him attractive to her. A man who knew what he wanted, was willing to take it. The thoughts disgusted her, and yet, they were her own. Undeniable, almost tangible.

Standing from the ledge of the tub, Brigid frowned once more at her own reflection before reaching her hands up to touch the messy bun that held her hair up in place. Tugging fiercely at the elastics and pins a moment, she dropped each of the items onto the counter until her hair fell loose around her shoulders. A few, more resilient pins had remained, and were plucked out less viciously than the rest.

Thick, dark brown waves of hair fell around her pale shoulders, the colour of it making her pallor all the more obvious. She'd always had her mothers hair-- wild, untameable. Running her fingers through natural waves, she quickly brushed aside any thoughts of trying to tame the locks into a more presentable fashion, sweeping the pins and elastics into the trash bin.

It was as close to sensual as she was going to look, she decided, before opening the door.

The bedroom beyond was dark, lit only by the fireplace at the far end of the room and the light that filtered in from the large, floor to ceiling windows; sea green and the faint yellows and pinks of distant neon signs. Blinking until her eyes readjusted, she could make out the shape of Fontaine, waiting for her from his seat on the edge of his bed. Watching her. He had already shed off his outer jacket, left in his white shirt, tie loose around his neck. His shoes sat near the doorway, she noted blankly, beside her own plain heels.

He was still watching her.

She waited for the judgment-- a laugh, a scoff, something to signify that this was either a cruel joke or a mistake-- all the while fighting the urge to cover herself. The hardwood floors were cold against her feet, and had it not been for the fact that her clothing was behind her in the bathroom, she was nearly certain she would have fled.

“Damn...” She heard him utter at last, and her eyes shut tightly, mentally steeling herself against whatever mockery was sure to follow. “You clean up nice, kid. I knew all you needed was to let your hair down...”

That was unexpected, and her eyes snapped open again in an expression that surely reflected her surprise. Fontaine, seeming to assume she wasn't going to move out of the bathroom door without a bit of coaxing, stood from his spot to draw nearer, tugging off his loosened tie in one, clean motion. “You look _good_ , Brigid. Better than good.”

She felt almost feverish, a strange and foreign warmth running throughout her core. She wanted it to stop, she wanted to fix it, to cure it-- and yet, she wanted it to burn her alive.

His hands settled on her waist, and it took a great deal of effort not to flinch away. She was used to his touching her shoulders, her hands-- little touches in the laboratories that could go ignored, brushed aside. Now, with his fingers feeling over the silken fabric of her negligee, she realized there was no ignoring what these sensations meant.

She _wanted_ him-- and unless he was a very good actor, he wanted _her_.

Brigid didn't remember saying anything in response, couldn't remember if he pulled her to the bed or if she walked there on her own; she _could_ remember the sensation of the soft fur rug beneath his bed on her feet, an off handed comment about the bear it had come from, the thought that it would have felt luxurious against bare skin.

She fell against his bed easily, rearranging herself against the pillows and comforters as Fontaine took a moment to appraise her further. Brigid watched as his eyes travelled down the length of her body, back up, and finally settled on her face, where she flushed and cast her gaze away. She never could meet those eyes for long.

“I think I need t' take back my comment, Brig...” Fontaine's voice was low, something new introduced into the tone that she couldn't put her finger on. It was there in his gaze, as well-- something _hungry_. “If you were takin' my advice and going around Rapture without your lab coat and your hair all up, I think half a' Rapture would want you... and that just wouldn't leave much time for me, huh?”

There was laughter somewhere in his words, and Brigid wasn't certain what to make of it. When she didn't offer him any immediate sign that she understood what he was saying, Fontaine frowned a bit and observed her face, head cocking slowly to one side.

“...You okay, kid? You're lookin' a bit scared, there. You sure 'bout this?”

Was she sure? Not in the least; the idea of having any sort of sexual relationship with Fontaine was no one's but her own, and yet she found herself struggling to commit to it. It had been easy to pose him a question after their dinners together, after a few too many glasses of wine. Asking a man if they would have sex with you was an easy thing to do-- it was what followed that seemed to be the problem.

She considered saying 'no,' considered excusing herself, getting dressed, pretending none of this had ever happened. At this point, however, he had seen her like this, half dressed and flushed. Would he ever see her without thinking about that? And could she really deny the heat between her thighs when she saw him watching her with those hungry eyes?

“I...” Her voice was faint, uneven, and she frowned internally at the sound of it, “...I do not like to be touched, but... when these feelings are coming to me, I... _need_ it. In the past, this is easy-- I am finding a man who does not wish to know me, it is... simple. This...”

This was not simple, nothing about this was. She could not recall the last time she had wanted anyone the way she desired Fontaine, and it sickened her to her very core. At last, she shook her head sharply, “ _Ach_ , enough. Enough with the talking, please... I just... need this.”

Fontaine did not seem entirely convinced, but it didn't seem to deter him from his goal any. If anything, he offered her what she was sure was intended to be a reassuring smile, his voice following with a warm tone, “Don't like t' be touched, need t' be touched. You're one a' those, what do you call it? _A contradiction in terms_.”

“Fontaine--” He shot her a quick look, and she corrected herself, “Frank, please. _Enough_.”

She didn't have to remind him again; in a breath, Fontaine had his shirt unbuttoned and tossed onto a chair, his pants undone as he climbed on top of her. The weight of him was suffocating; not so much painful as domineering. He held his weight well, not placing to much pressure on her frail body as he took hold of her arms and stretched them up over top of her head. She held them there as his hands withdrew, calloused fingers trailing over her sides, appreciating the lace details of the negligee and tracing them with a fingertip down to the hem.

His fingers continued downward, running over her thighs to still around her knees before trailing back up the inside of her thighs, beneath the silken fabric to find the source of all her troubles. She had forgone any underwear; it was already silly enough to her that she would wear anything resembling lingerie when the goal was for two partners to be naked, and the discovery of this seemed to please Fontaine, if the low noise he made in his throat was any sign.

One finger lazily traced up her core, Brigid feeling humiliation rising on her face as she felt the wetness pooling between her thighs from so simple an interaction. Had she always been so simple? She wanted to tell herself no, that perhaps it was from the length of time she had gone without any such experiences, or perhaps Fontaine's touch really was just that skilled.

Perhaps she really was just desperate enough for his touch.

His hand withdrew, and she was almost thankful for it, had it not been for the sudden pressure that replaced it. Fontaine stretched out over her, one hand holding to her thin wrists and pressing them into the bed while the other helped to guide him into her aching core. She gave little more than a whimper when he found his way inside, and the sound seemed to coax Fontaine into another smirk, replacing the look of focus that had taken over his face.

Fontaine's mouth was suddenly on her own, the touch rough and near-bruising. It was a strange and sudden realization to find the man kissing her, and Brigid was not certain she had wanted to allow him to do such a thing-- the motion too passionate, belonging to lovers and not to the desperate and wanton like herself.

Perhaps, she thought in some corner of her mind that remained clear despite the arousal, she should have outlined her rules a little more clearly for Fontaine... though it was doubtful if the man would follow anyone's rules.

At some point, his mouth left her own, moving to explore the soft skin of her neck, his nose nuzzling through her hair, and Brigid found her eyes shutting of their own accord, not focused so intently on the ceiling as they had prior. The sensations were new ones, strange and unwanted but strong. She _wanted_ him to touch her.

A dangerous thought entered her mind, then: _this is not just about sex._

Fontaine's voice was in her ear, then-- deeper than usual, disrupted by his heavy breathing; “Just remember...” She struggled to hear him, despite his mouth brushing against her ear as he spoke, “You want this done your way? You do your work _my_ way...”

Slowly, Brigid gave a nod, the motion lost as Fontaine continued, the movement of his thrusts deep and even, touching deeper into her core than she had felt before, “You work exclusively for _me_.”

Her lips moved to voice a ' _yes_ ,' but the sound that left her was decidedly not even a word-- nothing more than a desperate sound, a vocal plea for him to let her meet her end. Fontaine did little more than chuckle breathlessly in reply, seemingly all too happy to assist. Brigid was aware of the familiar twinges deep inside of her that signified her approaching orgasm, her body arching upward into his of its own accord.

He released her arms in order to take hold of her hips, angling her body into a better position, and Brigid made use of her freedom by digging her short nails into his bare shoulders, earning a low groan from her partner. Her thighs trembled around him, her body beginning to shake as her climax drew closer.

“Fr-- Frank, I... _Scheiße_...”

She felt it, her innermost walls tightening around Fontaine as her orgasm struck, and she was vaguely aware of him echoing her curse in his breathless voice. Even so, he continued to thrust into her through the sensations, his own orgasm following shortly after with a sharp grunt. She felt him, in essence, inside of her, and an unfocused thought of ' _should have made him wear a condom_ ' was brushed aside.

Her heart was pounding in her chest when he removed himself from her, pulling off of the bed to readjust himself into his pants. She lay perfectly still, waiting until the last echo of pleasure faded away into silence before she sat up, steadying herself with a hand on the bed. She sat up too quickly, her head swimming, and yet before she could allow it to come back into focus she had started off towards the bathroom.

Brigid felt sweat clinging to her body, the intermingling of fluids between her legs being a sensation she wished to be free of. One strap of the negligee slid off her shoulder as she walked, and she found that she didn't have the wherewithal to readjust it. Leaning against the bathroom counter to steady herself, she heard Fontaine chuckling out, “You don't gotta run away, Brigid.”

“Is fine,” came the quick answer, though who she was trying to convince was anyone's guess, “I am just... needing to wash myself.”

If he spoke again, she didn't hear it, turning on the taps and waiting for the salt-tinged scent to leave the air. The water in Rapture, even when filtered, seemed to have a distinctly briny smell to it-- as if the ocean were reminding the residents where exactly they were. Once it had passed, she used one of the hand towels to wash between her thighs, wringing it out before dropping it into a laundry hamper by the door.

The negligee was stripped off and dropped haphazardly onto the floor, her bra and underwear slipped on quickly-- though why, she wasn't certain. It wasn't as if she had anything to hide from the man on the other side of the door, now. Her blouse followed, buttoned and smoothed out, before her skirt was tugged on. Her stockings proved too much to bother with at this hour, shoved into the bottom of her purse instead.

The last step was her hair, which was quickly finger brushed to a semi-presentable state. Pulling it up into her usual style of piling the brunette waves into a messy bun, she glanced in the mirror at her reflection and paused.

She released it, allowing her hair to fall freely back down around her shoulders.

Stepping back out into the bedroom, she found Fontaine in a similar state of redress; his suit jacket and tie had been tossed over the back of the chair beside the bed, but his shirt was buttoned back up. It was easier, she noted, for a man to look presentable after sex-- especially a man with no hair to tame back down.

Seeming to realize he was being watched, Fontaine's eyes lifted from the clock he had been observing, and he smiled in her direction. “Letting your hair down, huh?”

“Perhaps it is time for a change.”

Whether he was impressed by her answer or amused, she couldn't say. What she could say, was that when he reached out to twist a lock of her hair around his fingers, she didn't push his hand away. Pulling his hand away, Fontaine took a step away from Brigid, appraising her once more before commenting, “I've got my man Reggie waitin' downstairs for you. He's gonna walk y' home, make sure you get there safe.”

Brigid wasn't entirely certain why he was going out of his way for her, and so she simply gave an awkward nod in response. Reggie, she had learned over time, was a fairly gentle brute until he got in a scrape; while she doubted anyone in Rapture would have bothered her before, she was certain they would leave her alone with him as her escort.

They said an awkward good night, Brigid half wondering if Fontaine would attempt to kiss her now that they were not intertwined in his bed. He made no motion to, and some corner of her spirit that she had long forgotten about seemed somehow disappointed by this.

The walk home with Reggie was uneventful, the man making no attempt at conversation as they walked in silence towards the Artemis Suites. He dropped her at her door, waited for her to get inside before turning away. Once Brigid had the door shut, she turned the lock and put the bolt into place, revelling in the cold silence of her own dismal apartment for a long moment.

It was the opposite of Fontaine's home. His represented grandeur, luxury, all light and heat. Her own was simple, dark, and cold. It was a strange realization, as she stripped down and crawled into her own bed, that for the first time in her life, she was longing for a body to sleep next to. The thoughts were brushed aside quickly, and Brigid gave herself over to exhaustion.

She dreamt of warmth and light.


End file.
